


Of Turtles and Towers

by Bookwyrm83



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cameos, Crossover, Depression, Humor, Minor Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Other, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 09:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14422902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwyrm83/pseuds/Bookwyrm83
Summary: Along his journey to the Dark Tower and in pursuit of the man in black, Roland's course is deviated after a violent encounter, leading him into another world he never could have anticipated or imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters from The Dark Tower series and the Discworld series belong to their respective authors and copyright holders (Stephen King and Terry Pratchett) respectively. Although some supporting characters are of my own creation, I have taken influence from both authors in doing so.
> 
> Set roughly a few months before the events of The Gunslinger and during an indeterminate period in the Discworld (let's say after Soul Music). Perhaps even another when for either or both. Inspired by certain parallels found in reading both series and thinking it would be fun to blend two tonally disparate universes together.

The sun hovered in the sky like a vile god, bringing light and torridity not intended to illuminate and support life but instead blind those exposed, leaving the lands and those who walked upon them scorched and sere. In the great woods north of the Mohaine Desert, the atmosphere was nearly as arid as the flatlands that bordered the forest, with almost no humidity and the impression that if a fire were to spark and grow out of control, everything would burn with little chance of regrowth. The trees themselves were more brown than green, appearing in perpetual autumn amidst the temperatures of high summer. There were heatwaves even in the undergrowth, the shadows from the trees offering protection from the fiery rays of withering sunshine but not from the thirst and oppression that were infused with the air. These were conditions that tested the will to endure, yet as the world moved on, those who could stay alive adapted. To give in meant certain death.

As he walked through the woods and endured the encapsulating heat, the gunslinger tried to remember how long he had been following the man in black. He remembered Cort and his cruel tutelage, the fall of Gilead, the hateful face of the treacherous Marten, the sight of his people massacred and his friends falling much the same. He remembered the last words his mother spoke to him, and the rage of losing his father amidst the chaos. He remembered almost dying in several instances, during the battle and ever since. But he couldn't recall how many years had gone by. Or maybe he knew but didn't want to admit it to himself. He had devoted his life to the Tower and his current quest, and any serious rumination on how these events had come to pass would only make him feel old. But there was little else to think about beyond doleful memories and future goals, and Roland Deschain would be the first to admit he lacked a great imagination.

The sun had set and the great forest grew dark, but Roland could not bring himself to rest. Walter O'Dim was far ahead but the distance was lessening. He knew this by the remnants of camp fires that were fresher than they were in previous weeks, although most men would consider them long-abandoned. Next to one of the camps he had recently come across was a large pine tree that had an eye carved into the trunk, painted crimson and with words carved beneath: WATCHING YOU. The same tree had another crimson eye on the other side with a similar threat: WATCH YOUR BACK. Roland snorted, doubting this was anything more than his quarry getting bored and amusing himself. _Maybe he used the chips for kindling_ , he thought. Howbeit, this demonstration had not fazed him, as he was always alert. He had to be after surviving every attempt made on his life, of which he no longer tried to keep count.

Another such attempt was to be made that same night. The offenders watched him make camp from a distance, knowing the moonlight filtering through the shadows would provide them camouflage. There were fourteen of them, in fact; slow mutants in service of the man in black. When Roland finally appeared to be asleep, they moved in as silently as possible, the hunger for his flesh building with every step closer. They didn't take into consideration that the gunslinger could smell them approaching. There was no mistaking an odor akin to putrefied meat, even without the benefit of the small breeze that had picked up. Before they were within five yards of their intended prey, the mutants were shocked to see Roland spring to his feet faster than any one of them could blink. Hands as fast as lightning produced the famed Sandalwood Guns and the mutants were in short order disposed of in an abrupt storm of thunder and lead.

All but two, who had waited out of sight and for the bullets to stop firing. The man in black had warned them that he was fast but the mutants could hardly believe what they saw. No regular person had hands that looked so spectral in action. As Roland was picking up the bullet casings, they lunged roaring out of the shadows like berserkers. Roland realized he wouldn't have time to reload and ducked out of the way as the larger one stumbled over its feet and crashed on the ground with a winded "Oof!", while the other swung his shapeless arms aimlessly, a large rock in one hand. When he noticed the gunslinger was several feet away and digging into his purse for fresh bullets, he threw the rock at his head, clipping Roland's left temple. He then made two mistakes, however. He did not kill Roland when he had the chance, preferring instead to laugh at him as he groaned in the dirt. He also committed the biggest insult against a descendant of the line of Eld that could be performed - he took his weapons.

Roland's hands were swift and fierce, snatching the mutant's forearms with a vice-like grip. This might have caused serious damage had they not been grabbed from behind by the larger mutant, whose own force was stronger still. To make matters worse, the monster's hands had suckers on his palms, making the grip all the more difficult to resist. Laughter like churning gravel came from both creatures as Roland was hoisted up by his wrists. The mutant with his guns pointed them square to his chest and pulled the triggers - forgetting that the chambers in both were still empty. The mutants looked at each other like confused children.

"My turn," Roland snarled and stamped down on the right ankle of the mutant holding him. For one so muscular, the flesh was almost like gelatin and Roland heard a squelching crunch, followed by a high-pitched wail straight into his ear. As he freed himself from the mutant's loosened grasp, Roland saw that he had just dug his heel into a severely engorged abscess, which may be why the fiend had been so quick to fall the first time. The bones beneath must also have been quite brittle to have cracked so easily. Trying not to look at the dark blood and pus that now covered his boot, and kicking into the dirt to remove some of it, Roland grabbed the rock that had damaged his head and proceeded to savagely assault the whining grotesque.

A few heavy bashes were all that were needed to crack its skull open, the thuds like a clay bowl filled with custard being smashed into the ground. A cry from the other mutant made Roland look up and raise the rock to defend himself from the creature's wild flailing. It was still holding Roland's guns and after staring in shock whilst his partner's head was bludgeoned, began using them like clubs. Roland dodged and riposted while trying not to ruin his temporarily stolen goods. In his concentration he did not notice the body of one the corpses behind him that had fallen with its knee slightly bent upward, and Roland backed right onto the limb, tripping over as a result. His attacker paused and hooted at the sight.

“Man in black say hi-ya,” he croaked before departing, giving Roland a kick in the ribs as he did so. Roland began to see red as he watched the mutant run into the forest, waving his guns like they were maracas.

He was not incapacitated long and was able to gather his few belongings, put out the fire, and take off in swift pursuit of the thief, wiping the blood from his temple as he did so. There was a full moon that night, grinning like the face of death and although the woods were full of predators, none were as deadly as Roland of Gilead. Every so often he would hear the thief's laughter, taunting him from the darkness. A pallid mist had started to rise, lending the forest a haunted look of unknown terrors that the gunslinger by this point was accustomed to; as the world moved on, everywhere he passed through looked grim and accursed.

 _Why didn’t the bastard just kill me?_ Roland thought. If the man in black wished him dead, and he most likely did, the mutie should have just finished the job right there. And why not send competent assassins? Was it because the mutants would cannibalize him as they killed him? That would make sense to a sick imagination, but he must have also known that Roland would not allow himself to be so easily set upon out in the open. Either the mutant was playing with him or had something more sinister in mind. Or it was just plain stupid. Nevertheless, his would-be killer was not going to get away with this transgression. He would ensure that.

After running tirelessly as the minutes passed like hours, he found himself before a cabin that appeared long disused. When he walked inside, he had to cover his mouth and nose, for the stench of the mutie was stronger in here than the fading trail it had left behind. A trap door leading into a cellar had been left open, probably the mutant's idea of luring him into another ambush. Most slow mutants were only intelligent enough to perform basic bodily functions but every so often a few would cross paths with Roland who were clever, or even gain the upper hand. The Green Folk of Eluria came to mind.

"Son of a bitch," Roland muttered. He had to approach with patience. Although he wanted to go straight down and tear the ugly swine's head off, he knew very well that a slow mutant was at home below ground, even in a cramped cellar, where they could emulate the nightmares of those afraid of dark and confined spaces. Should somebody walk down there with a lantern, it would wait until the light shone across its face before leaping forward with a guttural "BOO!" It was best not to imagine what happened after.

He listened for a few moments and steadied his nerves. He did a quick check around the cabin, which had only three rooms and was completely vacant except for a large wooden table in the foyer. Since it was surprisingly too sturdy to break one of the legs off to use as a club, and as none of the branches outside looked useful, Roland approached the cellar entrance with fists clenched. If he had to fight the thing off hand-to-hand, then so be it. Though he preferred to put a bullet in its head.

He descended stairs which creaked noisily, as if they were about to snap at the slightest touch. He held the hand rail while staying mindful to avoid splinters, taking his time with these steps and once on solid ground, lit a match to check his surroundings. The cellar was quite small and disappointingly empty. Not even a faint glow to give mutant's presence away. There was however a cabinet where the smell was strongest and after a moment's thought, he grabbed hold of one side and pulled it forward. A chiming sound not unlike a thinny suddenly hammered into Roland's mind and the wall behind the cabinet swirled in darkness that made the other shadows seem a pale gray.

"What the fuck?" Roland exclaimed. Todash darkness. A doorway into another world. The mutant must have gone this way and Roland knew he had to follow, though for a moment he wondered how the hell this portal was even here, and how the mutie had found it. Unless this was the sorcerer's work; that figured better but still didn't provide a satisfactory answer. He hoped the monstrosity wasn't already dead or lost. He calmed his mind and focused on the scent. On his guns. He could hear a small, unbidden voice enter his thoughts, trying to convince him that this was insanity; that no weapons were worth this. He opened his eyes and met the darkness.

"Mine are," he said with conviction, and so walked into the portal.


	2. Chapter 2

Roland stepped through the door and into a city that looked as if it belonged in centuries past. The streets were cobbled and the ramshackle buildings were all crammed together. People walked by wearing leather jerkins, tunics and breeches that were frayed and little more than rags. In contrast, he wore faded dungarees and a shirt open at the collar, held loosely together with a rawhide thong through hand-punched eyelets. His wide-brimmed hat and dust jacket, along with his crisscrossed gun belts, completed the image of a man who should be in a desert town at high noon challenging a similarly garbed cur to a deadly showdown. Here, he guessed disputes were generally settled with knives and several seconds of rolling in mud. Turning around, there was only a grimy brick wall with no trace that a portal had been there. One-way, he thought. There must be another somewhere here that would lead back to his world. He was counting on it. But right now, he needed to focus, find the slow mutant and get his weapons back.

Considering all the trash, soot and wet smells of decay that filled the streets he now found himself in, that would be no easy task. It had been dark when he entered the cabin but here there were still some daylight left. The people all looked downcast and uninterested in this stranger who walked among them. His clothes weren't right and he looked like belonged in a different era, let alone environment but nobody seemed to care. This didn't make him any less self-conscious. For a minute he thought he might have been in The Territories but knew the way the world appeared and even moved did not feel right. He just wasn't sure how. He approached a few people who had set up stands to inquire if they had seen the mutant but as they were more interested in haggling their wares, aggressively so in one merchant's case as he kept threatening to cut his own throat, he let them be and kept an eye out for anyone who might have been disturbed by the creature's passage.

"Excuse me, mate," grunted a voice behind him, "but you look lost. Might you be a stranger in these parts?"

"Yes, I am," said Roland, discovering the speaker to be the human equivalent of a stack of beef. "I don't suppose you could tell me what city this is."

The man laughed and Roland immediately wanted to punch his lights out. He almost Roland's height, bald and looked like he had more muscles than thoughts in his brain. The leer in his eyes and the venom in that voice told Roland everything he needed to know.

"You're in Ankh-Morpork, as if you didn't know that," said the thug. "This little, ah, district is called The Shades. Usually people don't come around here unless they want to disappear. Or make people disappear, for that matter. Which are you, friend?"

Another man emerged from an alley to his right with a similar shit-eating grin. He could sense a third approaching from behind. His expression hadn't changed, and the man before him had only a second to look into his icy blue eyes before he was on the ground, his nose broken and vision clouded with stars. The man from the alley ran forward and screeched as his arm was snapped at the elbow, his cries cut off as he too was slammed onto the cobbles just as quickly. The third man produced a dagger and began dancing in place, making a loopy hand motion to challenge him. Roland might have accepted had not a loud bellow alerted him to the first assailant, who was charging forward headfirst. Roland's reflexes served him well as he quickly grabbed the thug around the neck and wrestled him to a wall, slamming the top of his skull into the brick. He did this three more times and dropped him like a sack of rocks. Somehow the man was still conscious, although cross-eyed and unable to do more than moan.

"I'm not your friend," said Roland coldly. "And you have forgotten the face of your father."

He glanced at the man with the broken arm who was worming himself away, his able hand shielding his face from the gunslinger's gaze. Roland walked back into the center of the road and looked the third mugger in the eye. He grinned at Roland sheepishly, dropping his dagger before turning to run - tripping on an apple core almost immediately and falling hard on his back. The handful of plebeians who had stopped to watch quickly went back to their business, pretending the brawl was of no greater significance than somebody crossing the street. This might have amused the gunslinger had he been in the mood for humor. This altercation had happened too soon and was too familiar. Nevertheless, he left the failed attackers to think about their choices and search a part of the city where might get some better news. At the very least, he hoped that someone would have noticed a hulking green abomination.

Walking through the city gradually became more surreal. At times, he thought he was inside someone's interpretation of a medieval setting with touches of modernity (or what passed for modern in Mid-World; the world had moved on, after all). But the sight of trolls and dwarves, and even goblins just casually walking around like a human city was a natural environment for them reminded him of storybooks he read when he was younger. There were otherworldly creatures and magic users in his world, but this place seemed more fantastical. It also felt like a labyrinth and Roland wondered if he would ever find the mutant. He turned a corner and found himself in a particularly squalid side street. Rather than go back, he figured he may as well check down here, as there were no signs of his target on the main roads. As he went along, it seemed like the worst he would find down here were flea-bitten strays and puddles best avoided at all costs.

 _"YOU!"_ screeched a hairy man who jumped from out of an alleyway. Roland almost skidded in his tracks and the spidery individual approached him with his arm outstretched and finger pointing like a needle. He was a hideous person; one eye was milky with blindness, the other green and bloodshot. His orange hair and beard were long, matted and streaked with white; his face scarred and pocked with acne and his teeth were barely clinging to his gums. The burlap and hides that made his clothes were shoddily stitched together and looked worn beyond reasonable repair. He was cackling at Roland, the high pitch of a jester who had just escaped an asylum for the hopelessly insane.

"Yooouuuuu," the crazy man repeated, guffawing at his success in startling the gunslinger, "you don't belong here! Yes, I can see your evil. I may be blind but I see better than most. You are a stranger and bring great EVIL here. Yes, you bring DEATH. Do not try and hide from me, my eye sees what most men will not see, nor dare they dream to see! Doom, _DOOM COMETH FROM THEE!_ Ye-hee hee hee hee!"

Roland was dumbfounded. The man's pale eye was pulsing, exuding an impression of power. He could not refute anything that had been said and it crossed his mind this madman might be a seer. He had not expected to meet such a person and felt compelled to explain himself. Yet something about this encounter did not sit right with him, so instead he asked a question.

"What do you know of me, old man?" he queried. "We have never met before. And how can you be certain it is I who bring death, and not another?"

"Do not be silly, sir," panted the seer, "for it is my eye what knows. One look upon you was all that was necessary. The blood on your boot proves it. You might have tried to scrape it off but there's still enough to show your sin. But I can see beyond the exterior and into thy tarnished soul. My eye that sees all, my eye that knows all. It is my eye that sees you are wayward, you bring wickedness by your presence alone, and that you require...salvation. Which I can give to ye, for a price if you are willing to pay, otherwise continue on your cursed way." He followed this with more insane cackling.

 _Wait a goddamn minute,_ thought Roland. There was a hunger in the old man's grinning face, one that Roland was all too familiar with. He had seen it many times before and during the fall of Gilead, on the faces of John Farson's acolytes and other "holy men" who were solely interested in exploiting rather than saving. Within seconds, Roland realized this man was no different, a con artist preying on the gullible by discombobulating them, leaping at them like a trapdoor spider seizing a hapless victim. He probably had this and many other speeches memorized for passers by, presuming their nature by appearance and adding observations on the spot. Clever, but not nearly enough.

"If your eye sees all," Roland's voice boomed, "then it will tell me where I can find the beast I pursue. It can tell me of the weapons I seek to reclaim. It can tell me the way to the Tower itself and the path that will bring me to Gan in worlds beyond."

"It can and it will," said the old man, his grin widening and his body dancing with anticipation. "Do not look so surprised. Many a lost soul have found themselves here as the fates have willed it. Aye, indeed the path you seek is fraught with danger. Produce a coin and you can come with me, and then I will show you—"

"Nothing," interrupted Roland, "for I want proof of your abilities. First, you will tell me here and now how I came to be in this city, specifically and not broadly, as well as the level of my khef."

The seer hesitated, turning his face slightly to stare at nothing and shifting his mouth as if trying to form the correct words in his mind, before looking back at the gunslinger and asking, "What do you mean, 'khef'?"

"I knew it," said Roland acidly, "nothing more than a charlatan. Making the foolish see inside themselves what you desire for your schemes. But I have two eyes and know my destiny, and I don't need a disingenuous scoundrel getting in the way and delaying me further. Be gone at once!"

"Y-you can't tell me what to do," the old man stammered, "this be my place of business. You go away! You might not even have sufficient coin, anyhow." One glower from the gunslinger was all it took to have the con artist scuttle back into the alleyway, before he turned and ran into the shadows. Roland stared after him until the miasma of trash and human waste wafting from the alley reminded his nose that these streets were no place to stay stationary. He walked ahead and found himself back in more populated areas, with every passing block showing more of the same. He kept his face set in grimness so that anybody tempted to come toward him would soon think again.

He saw an inn and considered going inside for a drink, maybe even to listen for rumors of the mutant but this thought was dashed when the doors burst open and a troll with three dwarves hanging off his arms and neck spilled out onto the street. Roland couldn't exactly make out what the trouble was due to the noise of the crowds on the street, as well as the ones in the pub cheering on the fight, but he caught a few words coming from the dwarves accusing the troll of cheating, and the troll only roaring in response. Roland quickly backed away as one of the dwarves was repeatedly mashed into the pavement, his face shattering under the troll's fist with geysers of gore.

"Deghoc, no!" cried one of the dwarves, drawing a small sword and hacking at the troll's boulder-like arms. These attacks only seemed anger it even more, being hardly scratches. Not wanting to stand by and gape like the rest of the onlookers, Roland stood forth and whistled as loudly as he could.

"Listen to me, and listen well!" he proclaimed. The dwarves and the troll briefly looked at him before making dismissive groans.

"Piss off, you," the troll rumbled with disdain, cutting Roland off before another word could be said.

"Yea, you're not involved," one of the dwarves said hoarsely, "so mind your own business, interloper!" The other dwarf caterwauled and continued his assault on the troll with his deficient sword. The troll responded by picking him up be the beard and hollering into his face. Roland rolled his eyes and walked away, not having the energy to intervene further. The last he saw of the fight was the dwarves kicking and slashing alike at the troll's limbs, and as the crowd behind him went wild, Roland assumed another one of them must have met a sticky end of his own.

"What the fuck was I thinking?" Roland muttered to himself, cursing his decision to go todash. He cursed the mutant and whatever forces had brought him to this city, renewing his vow to ensure the thief die in absolute pain. He felt a pang of guilt that this notion should come so soon after seeing a presumably innocent man pulped for spectators' entertainment. If he were more appropriately armed or in a healthier state of mind, he might have tried harder at being a peacekeeper, or at least a mediator. He grudgingly forced himself to continue onwards and not dwell on the fact that he had been outmatched and unwelcome.

 _That hardly stopped you before,_ came Alain's logical voice. A voice that troubled him as it was from a time when Roland was less reluctant to take chances and his heart had not been completely broken.


	3. Chapter 3

Deciding he'd had enough of The Shades, Roland approached a bridge to explore a more savory part of the city but as he did so, saw the sludge that passed for a river beneath it. Intuition told him that his quarry might be drawn here. Deciding it wouldn't hurt to check, he made his way down and towards the base of the bridge, staying mindful of the rocks and pebbles that moved loosely under his feet. As he got closer, a distinctive stench began to waft into his nose that was decidedly worse than the river itself, and a disgusting cackle was heard from underneath the bridge. He deduced that it must be on the riverbank, probably eating a stray cat and satisfied that it had found the perfect hiding place. And it still had his guns.

Not having any plan in mind except for a direct incursion, Roland found a large stone and approached the base of the bridge. Ignoring the niggling familiarity's return, with his back to the bridge’s base he eased to the corner and hefted the stone in this left hand. Sucking in a breath, he turned the corner and saw a group of raggedy men sitting around a fire. They all looked up at Roland and the closest, a man with no legs, asked if he had change for a penny before noticing the stone in his hand. The man with the Smell and an equally ragged dog stopped cackling long enough to take in the sight of the stranger.

"Bugrit!" he said. "Who the hell are you?"

"Oh...my apologies," said Roland, lowering his arm. "Long days and pleasant nights. I'm looking for a thief and thought he might have come this way."

"Buggrem, bugger 'em all, your thief and you alike!" shouted the beggar. Another noise was made and the others in the group inched themselves away, even the dog.

"Ron, that's...forget it," said one of the others, clutching his nose. "You'll have to pardon him, sir. There’s a reason he’s earned the title ‘foul’. But if you're looking for a thief, you've come to the right city. So to speak. Have you already been robbed?"

Roland regarded the man and tried very hard to meet his gaze. Mostly because the duck that was sitting on his head was calling itself to attention just by being there, and seemed to be staring straight back. But he had lived through a lifetime of oddities so this shouldn't have distracted him. Much.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he said. "Perhaps you might have seen him. Green skin, rotund shape, ugly face, and riddled with boils and sores. Carrying a pair of guns."

"Guns?" asked the Duck Man, looking at the others.

"What are guns?" asked another, whose skin was a patchwork of diseases that almost made Roland wonder if he himself was a mutie. "Though I can't say I—" He erupted into a series of violent coughs before continuing. "Can't say I've seen anyone like that. Not with green skin, anyways."

"Cover your mouth, Henry," said the Duck Man, looking back to Roland. "Nobody really comes down this way, sir. Not unless they are outcasts like us, or they've taken a wrong turn. Though if someone like that had passed through, I'd say we would remember. What are guns, by the way?"

"Weapons," said Roland, all the more perplexed. "Handheld weapons that fire bullets. Little metal projectiles. Do you not have them here?" It had not occurred to Roland until now that this world may not have such munitions.

"Cannot say I've ever heard of one. They sound dangerous, though. Something the Assassins' Guild might use. Wait, are you looking for a thief or an assassin?"

"Both, technically. An assassin who stole my weapons and forced me to chase him here."

"He sounds crazier than we are," wheezed Henry. "Tell us he at least left you a receipt."

"Why would he do that?" asked Roland with an eyebrow raised.

"Comaaach... _heek-hak_...common courtesy," Henry replied, his voice cracking with each breath. "Might be you'll need to involve the City Watch, if he's that unscrupulous."

"Millennium hand and shrimp! Kiss my bleeding arse!" spat Foul Ole Ron with a chunk of phlegm. The dog looked up apologetically and said to Roland, "He means he hasn't seen anyone like that come this way."

 _I'm going completely crazy,_ thought the gunslinger. Perhaps that rock had hit him harder than he figured. At that moment he desperately missed Cuthbert, who would have the perfect words to express this encounter, even if they weren't exactly genteel. He shook his head and thanked the men for their time.

"You wouldn't happen to have change for a penny though, would you?" asked the legless man again.

"Arnold, let the man go," said the Duck Man. "He clearly has business to attend to and must have a lot on his mind." The duck quacked in agreement.

"Yes," said Roland with a straight face. "I say thankya, gentleman and again I apologize for my intrusion."

"No apology needed, sir," said Coffin Henry, through more throaty expulsions. "Hope you find who you're looking for."

"And bugger 'im! Long nights of pleasant buggery to you!"

"Shut up, Ron."

Roland turned to leave as the two infectious men began arguing but to his bemusement, found himself again facing the Duck Man, looking at him quizzically.

"I really hate to ask," he said with a sigh of embarrassment. "But about that duck."

"What duck?"

Roland blinked. "Nothing."

\------

Sergeant Fred Colon sat down on a bench by Pon's Bridge, intent on enjoying his dinner of eel pastie he had purchased an hour before but hitherto hadn't had a chance to eat. He was allocated to this location tonight after a recent burglary attempt at the Opera House, to ensure the thieves didn't try and come back this way. Being a fairly small bridge, he wondered whether or not the thieves might try and lift it as an easier target. It seemed reasonable to him and since it wasn't too demanding an assignment, he accepted. He just hadn't anticipated so much foot traffic and people were wondering if he was waving them through or trying swat flies away from his food. He had just begun to savor his second bite when the tall stranger approached him out of seemingly nowhere, the setting sun bathing him in a shadowy glow. His weathered face and stern expression instantly raised Colon's hackles.

"Oy there, what's your business?" asked Sergeant Colon, standing up and unintentionally spitting crumbs and bits of fish on the man's shirt. The stranger looked down with seemingly no emotion and flicked the bits of food of his shirt with one slight swipe. When he looked up, Colon suddenly felt the urge to reach for his sword. Not for attack, but as a defense against one.

"I'm looking for an assassin," said Roland. "Perhaps you could be of assistance."

"Not me, mate," said Colon, "I'm part of the City Watch. You want an assassin, you follow the road that way, about a twenty minute walk, parallel to the river. That'll take you to the Assassins' Guild. Plenty of professionals for you to hire."

"I'm not looking to hire," Roland replied, "I'm going after the man who tried to kill me. He's also a thief."

"Say what?" exclaimed Colon, grateful his mouth wasn't full. "Well, the Guild of Thieves will want to know about that. If I remember correct, they're on the same block. In fact, cross the bridge here and take the next one to the right, might save you a few minutes."

Colon shook his head. "It's one thing to be an assassin, but to take a second job like thieving. Then again, in this economy, you never know what some men'll do for a coin." He smiled and instantly regretted it. The stranger had spoken with the even baritone of a gentleman, but also the voice of a man whose face would be the last thing you would ever see. In another world, comparisons to one Clint Eastwood might spring to mind.

"The man I am looking for isn't part of any guild," Roland said, the comments of the vagrants before now making more sense to him. "I followed him into the city, after he tried to kill me in the forest beyond. He also stole my weapons. He is very dangerous, even cannibalistic. Surely the City Watch should be notified of such a threat."

Colon noted the last point was without question a statement. He swallowed drily and awkwardly placed his pastie on the bench, standing now at full attention.

"Unlicensed then," he said. "And an out-of-towner. Well, I s'pose that is a problem for the Watch. Very well, what's this man look like?"

When Roland gave him the description, Colon absentmindedly scratched behind his ear. This sounded like either some kind of troll or goblin he hadn't heard of before, though the stranger did mention the man was a mutant. Easy to picture but still hard to believe. He began to wonder if the cannibalism would classify him as human and then saw the stranger was waiting for a response.

"Ah, yes," began Colon, "that will help us a bit. Hopefully he hasn't left The Shades. We can't have a diseased flesh eater running amok in the more civilized parts of town. I mean, not that everyone in that district is all bad, but you know I mean."

"I'll agree on the basis of containment," came the steely reply. "I'm not here to play politics. I just want my weapons and this aberration taken out."

"And who might you be?" asked Colon, who had begun to sweat freely. There was something about that face and stare that intimidated him more than a meeting with Lord Vetinari. He was tempted to send him directly to the Assassins' Guild and let them sort the mess out. _Hell, he looks he belongs with them,_ he thought.

Before Roland could gives his reply, a bloodcurdling shriek came from an alley not far from them. Colon looked in the direction of where it came from and saw the stranger was already rushing towards the fray. He couldn't tell however if he was running or just walking very fast. He shook his head and knew that running was the obvious answer. He was just so transfixed that for a moment, the stranger seemed more than human. Still, he would be remiss in his duties if he didn't follow through, and so ran after wishing that the threat was nothing too serious. He later came to regret this decision, not only because of the ensuing violence but because when he returned for his pastie, he found it being consumed by a seagull who left only a few crumbs behind.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hold still, you lil' bitch," snarled the mutant. He found himself a prize after trying to stay as hidden as possible in the dying light of The Shades, and he was hungry. He'd managed to find a three-legged dog not long after emerging from the portal and enjoyed a few good bites out of its midsection when a pair of trolls who noticed the dog's shrill yelping attacked. Since they were armed with broadswords and faster than they looked, he dropped the bleeding remains of the dog and ran as fast as he could. He didn't understand why trolls would care what he ate and soon became incensed. He was starving, was being hunted and there were only so many places where he could keep still before being discovered. He couldn't wait until nightfall and then he would show his true terrible nature. Starting with an orphanage, perhaps.

In his grip was a young woman who had been walking home when she was unexpectedly grabbed and pulled into the alley off Whalebone Lane. He had seen go into one of the nearby shops and wanted her at first sight. He wanted her shape, he wanted her taste and felt the growing urge to satisfy a need he had not felt in a long time. After she emerged from the store, he checked to see if anyone was around and swung an arm around her waist, grabbing her breasts with the other and dragged her to the spot where she now struggled. That alone had caused her to loudly react, but when she saw the face of her assailant, she let out a wail that led residents nearby to believe there was a banshee in the streets.

He had a rotten green face that looked both bulbous and weaselly, with insectile eyes and flat hawkish nose that made his mouth seem wider. The goiter that bulged from his neck was half as big as his head, and like his skin was covered in boils. He had no hair except for some mottled tufts on the sides and back and when he grinned, his teeth looked like gravestones covered in black mold. He wasn't much taller than her but his torso and arms looked bulky enough to envelop her completely, despite appearing more bloated than muscular. His hands were misshapen and fingers like sausages were digging into her dress, simultaneously trying to keep her still and tear into her clothing, squeezing and pinching sensitive parts where his hands did not belong. Her cries for help only excited him further and he disregarded any thoughts of self-preservation for the prospect of gratifying his desires. Drool ran down the monster's chin as he licked his lips greedily, making her scream even louder. She swatted at his head and kicked at his legs as hard as she could, which caught the mutant by surprise. He yowled and picked her up by the shoulders.

"U'se jus' make me like you more," he jeered through gritted teeth, turning and pushing her face-first against a wall. "U'se look good 'nuff to eat. I tink affer I'm done here, I'm gonna make ya into a meal!" He chortled and tore at her further, keeping one hand on the back of her head so her screams went straight into the stone and became muffled. She still lashed out with her arms and legs as best she could, though the assailant's form pressing into her from behind was becoming increasingly more forceful. She feared that her face would be pushed harder into the wall and her head crushed like a melon, but this didn't stop her from trying to fight him off. She wanted to whack him in his head but couldn't as he kept dodging her arms. His form had pushed her legs apart, making kicking attacks practically useless.

Her dress was nearly off, her chest exposed and it was then he started licking into her ear. Now was her chance. Her fingernails found skin and clawed deeply like a feral cat, and she felt a moment's relief when the mutant let her go and gripped at its face and goiter, pathetically yelping. She turned around and saw genuine hatred replace the shock of pain, the mouth turning from a salacious leer to horrid maw like that of a rabid animal. She gathered her torn clothes and darted right, making a short distance when the beast snatched the back of her hair, roaring terribly and flinging her back against the wall. She landed on the ground with stars in her eyes.

"You," barked the mutant, "you lil' slut! You die. You die NOW!"

"Wrong, you ugly maggot!" bellowed a commanding voice from the alley's entrance. "The only one who dies here is you!"

The mutant turned and saw the gunslinger standing tall, hands at his sides and staring him down like an executioner. He momentarily forgot Roland wasn't armed and fled in the opposite direction - stopping after a few yards and patting his pockets. The mutant began to quiver with laughter, turning around with a wicked sneer and producing the sandalwood pistols in each hand.

"U'se kill me, sai," he gurgled, "with no guns? U'se weak. I am strong. Man in black say shudda been five more of us. I say I ee-nuff. I kill you, then the cunny."

"If I'm so weak," said Roland, "then why are you running from me? Why didn't you kill me when you had the opportunity? We both know the answer to that. You're afraid. A gutless freak and nothing more. You also have the language skills of a five year old."

"Fuck you!" the mutant snapped. "I shudda killed you. Shudda fuckin' bashed u'se face and drank u'se bluid!"

"My mistake," said Roland, "for a five year old is more eloquent. And less of a sniveling coward."

At this, the mutant charged with a roar not unlike the battle cry made in the woods. Roland did not move. Not until the mutant was almost on top of him and when it looked like he was going to be tackled, Roland speedily brought his foot into the mutant's crotch. A vulgar move that would have Cort ranting in derision but in this case, an acceptable one. The mutant stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes almost literally bulging out of their sockets. Roland grabbed his shoulders and kicked once more, digging in with extra force before shoving the beast away. With a high-pitched croak, it dropped to its knees and curled into a fetal position, holding his injured area like so many who suffered such an indignity before him. But those men probably didn't have to worry about their testicles popping like grapes. Roland felt no pity when he saw the growing mass of blood soaking through the mutant's trousers. He had to stop himself from smirking in satisfaction.

He looked up and saw the woman was curled next to the wall and crying in relief. Another wave of déjà vu came over Roland and he had to shake any excess emotion out of his mind. He grabbed his guns and reloaded them quickly, grateful his kick continued to keep the mutant out of commission. Sergeant Colon arrived just in time to see Roland point his guns at the mutant's head and without a single word, put a pair of bullets into its skull. The echoing reports and the sight of the ruddy mist that erupted from the prone creature hit Colon in the guts; it didn't help that he was already short of breath from running. Roland looked up at him as he holstered his weapons.

"There's a woman here who could use your help," he said. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe I asked your name."

"Sergeant Fred Colon," he replied, moving quickly to where Roland had indicated. The gunslinger was helping her up and assuring her that she was out of danger. The sight of her breasts made Colon blush and he turned away. Roland rolled his eyes. This was nothing new for him and he felt no pleasure in seeing her bruised and naked body. Instead, he helped her tie her dress together at the back so it would stay up and she could have as much covering as was feasible. This was made easier by the fact her hair only went to her shoulders. When it was done, she turned and saw the deadly face from before had softened into one that was paternal.

"My name is Roland," he said gently. "What's yours?"

"Imogen," she said. "I work for the Bakers' Guild. I came here to drop off a delivery before going home when that...oh gods, what was it?"

"An abomination," said Roland, "and I would strongly suggest bathing with the harshest soaps you can find as quickly as possible. You don't want to be infected with what he has."

"I plan to," she said, trying to hold back tears. "Thank you so much. You know he said...what he was going to do me...I've met trolls less monstrous!"

"I believe you," said Roland, suppressing the memory of the evening's earlier event. He looked over to Colon. "Take her somewhere safe. A send some men here to secure this area. It might be best to burn the carcass."

"I think canvas and a trip to the Ankh will suffice," said Colon, taking Imogen's hand. "That's the river, by the way."

Roland was about to ask whether that was sanitary but then remembered what the river looked like. He nodded instead.

"What about you, though?" asked the sergeant. "Now that you have your weapons, I assume, where are you going?"

"I don't know," said Roland. "Perhaps I'll look for an inn where I can rest the night."

"Well, if you don't mind, I have a suggestion," said Colon. "You can stay the night and it's free of charge. I reckon dinner might still be available. I can have some of my colleagues point you in the right direction."

"Thankee-sai," said Roland. "It would be an honor. Where would this be?"

"The King's Way house," said Colon. "Much nicer than the Tanty."


	5. Chapter 5

Roland had been unjustly imprisoned before but being directed to the Watchhouse under the guise of free accommodation, and having his guns and ammunition confiscated to boot, sat under his nerves in a way that hadn't agitated him in quite some time. At least he was given an isolated cell and the assurance that it was only for protection. Roland guessed it wasn't for him. Colon was decent enough to be apologetic but since he had witnessed the cold-blooded execution of the mutant by a man who, in his words, was "not from around here and so had no authority", it was deemed that for the good of the city Roland be apprehended into the Watch's custody.

"For the time being," said a nervous Colon. "I'm sure once Lord Vetinari, our Patrician, hears your side of the story that he'll give you clemency." Roland knew it wasn't wise to argue but it was difficult for him not verbally lash the oaf for such naive assurance. To his credit though, Colon did follow through with supper, if you could call it that; mystery meat pie served at lukewarm temperature straight from the canteen and a mug of tepid water that he hoped was cleaner than it appeared.

"Don't worry," said the guard who served him, "you're eating better than most of the men we hold. They're lucky to get a good kipper out of us. And you've earned this."

"Thanks," said Roland evenly, trying to hide his chagrin. "It's been awhile since I've had a decent meal."

The guard smiled amicably and strolled off, either not catching his sarcasm or ignoring it. And despite his misgivings, Roland realized he hadn't eaten since he made camp, hours before that felt like a week. The pie itself was edible, albeit doughy and bland. He'd had worse and possibly would again. Even the water was flavorless, which he took as a good sign. Once he was finished, he set the plate and mug down by the cell's door and laid on the hard slab that was to be his bed for the night. As he was the only prisoner in the cells that night so far, a markedly rare occasion as indicated by his jailers, it was quiet enough that should have been able to get moments of rest. Sleep did not come to him that night, nor would it for some time.

A few hours after Roland had been locked up, Colon finally completed his written report (he had insisted on doing this himself, despite knowing how long it would take him to complete the paperwork), ensured that the seized material was in its place and announced to the guards stationed for the night that he was heading home. He knew Lord Vetinari would want to speak with him and Roland the following day, had even expected that it be this very night. Thankfully, a stomach sickness was temporarily keeping the Patrician away from face-to-face duties, so there was some room to breathe, at least until tomorrow afternoon. By then, Colon prayed that he would be composed enough for Vetinari's inquiring mind. He was surprised then when a familiar face came through the Watch House door.

"Lady Imogen," said Colon, "what are you doing here? I thought you had been escorted to the hospital."

"I was," she said with a smile, "but I feel better now, and have brought you a token of my appreciation. And you needn't call me 'Lady', Sergeant, for I am a simple baker." She was wearing a comfortable dark gray dress and was carrying a wicker basket with a pie inside. As she revealed it, Colon could smell the enticingly tart scent of gooseberries and smacked his lips. The other three guards on station came over, as if magnetized by the beckoning aura. She placed the pie on the front desk and producing a small knife, cut the pie into even eighths. Each man grabbed a piece and ate heartily, half the pie still in its pan and exposing the fruit inside in a way that would tempt even the most sated eater.

Within seconds of finishing, the other three guards collapsed to the ground with smiles on their faces. Colon was the last to fall, looking at his comrades and then back at Imogen.

"My dear," he said, his face cherubic, "what have you done?" He too fell to the ground and almost instantly was snoring.

"Sleep well," she cooed, "dear Sergeant." When she was sure they were all sedated, her face took on a stony expression and she searched for the keys to the storage room. Finding them, she quickly accessed the room and looked for Roland's belongings. They were in a box that was marked with a big question mark and a notice that read, "To be delivered to the Patrician, by order. - Sgt F Colon."

"Not bloody likely," she whispered, opening the box and checking if everything was in place. It appeared to be but of course only the man she was here for would know for sure. She breathed a small, uneasy sigh and closed the box, making her way to the cells and hoping there would be no further visitors tonight. She briefly considered barricading the front door but decided this would be impractical. She did however take the pie into the canteen and left it on one of the counters. She knew it was childish to expect some buffoon would take another slice but couldn't resist the prank.

Roland silently listened to her approach as he pretended to sleep. He had overheard her infiltration and because there were no other prisoners to take anyone's attention, it was simple for him to surmise that she had come for him. The footsteps stopped outside the door and he assumed that she was looking into his cell through the bars to gauge whether or not he was a threat. Finally, she unlocked his door and opened it, standing directly outside in expectation.

"Well," she said, "do you want out of here or not? I know you're awake, so let's not play any games."

He sat up fluidly and walked towards her. She didn't flinch and watched him approach her defiantly.

"A simple baker, my ass," said Roland. "Who are you really? And why are you freeing me?"

"We'll save the questions for later," she said. "Right now, all you need to know is that I'm the only one who doesn't want your head on a spike. Believe me, the Patrician will exploit you and then betray you at the drop of a hat. To say nothing of what my people will do."

Before he could inquire further, she thrust the evidence box into Roland's arms and pointed to the direction of the entrance. She opened the door and looked around to ensure no other guards were in sight, motioning with her head when it was clear. She moved quickly into the shadows in the side streets beyond, leaving Roland struggling to keep up.

He walked into an alley and found she had disappeared, until he heard a "Psst" directly above him. She was gripping a thin rope tied to a grapple and moving her way up a wall and onto a roof. Roland put down the box and gathered his gunna, holstering his revolvers before climbing the rope after her. She quickly wound up the grapple and moved along the rooftops, silently and with the grace of a cat. Roland did his best to follow suit, though he was sure Cort would compare him to a trampling bull.

Finally, Imogen stopped and crouched, scanning the rooftops and streets below. Roland caught his breath and watched her. She turned to him and after a moment's thought, looked straight into his eyes.

"As you may have guessed," she said in hushed tones, "I am not a baker. I'm an assassin, and the beast who attacked me did so after I had inhumed a contract of mine." Roland said nothing.

"I was posing as a baker so I could bring in a boysenberry cake for the man in question. Appropriate that it was his favorite treat and it rhymes with 'poison-berry', or so my client stated. In order to blend in, I needed to be unarmed and appear to be an innocent nobody. Since I have only recently passed my exams, the Guild decided that wasn't too difficult a task. Our house also has connections with the Bakers' Guild for when such contracts need to be fulfilled. In return, we get food free of both charge and contaminants." Roland nodded but still said nothing.

"I'm telling you this," she said, drawing in a breath, "as I probably could have killed that...thing...had I been properly equipped. I've never seen anything like it before and it caught me completely unawares. I've also never been violated..." She paused to gather herself.

"I forgot everything in that instant. All my training. All I could do was try to fight him off and escape. If it were a mere man, perhaps he would be dead without your interference. But that was like a thing from one's nightmares. And it knew you. And it had your weapons." She stared at him indignantly. "Those are gonnes, aren't they?"

"Guns, in my speech," said Roland just as quietly. Perhaps this world knew more than he had thought. It appeared the assassins did. "He stole them from me after trying to take my life. When he spoke, he confirmed he was an assassin in his own right. I'm searching for a man, you see, a wicked one of dark magic. I believe he sent that mutant and its cohorts to stop my pursuit."

At that moment Imogen held up her hand to indicate silence, looking up and around. She froze and Roland looked in the direction she was facing. Two figures in black were watching from a nearby rooftop and knew they had been spotted. They made their way over to where the gunslinger and Imogen were, just as silently and with clear intent. When they reached the same rooftop, they stood a few feet away facing them like a pair of ronin awaiting battle.

"You know Lord Downey wants this one, girl," said one of them finally. "Stand aside and let the men do their work." Both of their faces were hidden by their cloaks but by the sound of his voice, Roland judged him to barely be out of puberty.

"And don't feed us the tripe that you're just as capable," said the other, who sounded roughly the same age. "After that shameful display today I am astonished you haven't been kicked out the Guild."

"Not that women belong in the Guild," said the first, "but progressives have to have their bottle."

"Pity it couldn't be filled with poison," said the second, snorting like ten year old who thought he had uttered the world's funniest joke.

"The both of you morons know I succeeded in my assignment," Imogen said through her teeth. "And if you saw that beast alive, you damn well would have run home pissing your pants and crying into the hem of your mothers' dresses. That is if he didn't kill you first."

"Brave words from a weak woman," said the first assassin, drawing a stiletto blade from his robe. "One who should still be in the hospital and must learn not to eavesdrop on important conversations. Now stand back and let us do our work. You may still come out of this alive."

"And why does Lord Downey want him?" asked Imogen, more for Roland's benefit than her own. She knew what they would say, after all.

"His gonnes, you nit," said the second. "We're on order to take him alive, or dead if necessary. We don't care which. He has something that belongs to the Guild, as you know."

"And what makes you think me or my guns belong to your guild?" Roland asked with an edge to his voice.

"Don't play stupid with us," said the first. "They're forbidden and by legal decree the express property of the Assassins' Guild. Can't have some out-of-town commoner walking around with them."

"They're mine, cully," said Roland, "and have been in my family for generations."

"Horseshit. If you're going to lie to our faces, you could at least be creative about it. Like you stole the designs from somewhere and made them yourself. A much more likely story. Hell, if what I've heard is right, you stole them off that rapist's corpse."

"Well, if you're gonna kill man, you might as well take his weapons," said the second assassin. "Common knowledge amongst the average criminal scum."

"He stole them first and I guarantee you," Roland said with the same edge to his voice, "that the mutant I killed would have done the same to either or both of you as it did to her. Most likely it would have just slashed you open with its bare hands and gnawed at your wounds, but they are a deviant lot and might still find some pleasure from a pair of squints beyond chewing your guts while you're still screaming."

"Somehow I have my doubts," sneered the first assassin, positioning himself to strike. "Evidently you took him down easily enough. I'm sure we and our weapons could do the same." His counterpart extended his left hand and dirk slid out from his cuff of his sleeve. He formed a similar pose, sweeping his bladed arm as if inviting them to make the first move.

"That's because he was alone," said Roland. "Did I forget to mention that I killed thirteen of his comrades earlier, barely surviving the ordeal myself?" He pointed to the wound on his head that was now a clotted bruise. "He fled like a rat and knew to be afraid of me, and what I would do to him once I caught up. You two however are far less impressive and your letter-openers would only make him snigger."

"Enough talk," said the second assassin, "unless you want a grin from ear to ear. Mayhaps another mouth across your throat. Please, let us show you how sharp our friends are."

"I came from the same place as he did," Roland heedlessly continued, "and trust me, where I'm from, the sick and depraved have little qualms about who they molest and murder. I've seen men my age and older suffer the same. You might be trained assassins here and think you own the night but you would not last an hour with such unrelenting horrors as the ones I face. Try to picture their putrid breath on your necks, blighted hands plucking you as you try to flee, their rancid tongues licking ogrish teeth and their crotches bulging in arousal, pulling you in while you squall like children. Once they have you in their slimy clutches, either one of you would make a decent boycunt, whether alive or dead."

Suddenly Roland's guns were in his hands, firing bullets before another word could come from the fledgling assassins. He had fired a round each towards their feet and both of them jumped backwards in surprise, losing their balance and catching the roof just in time, barely holding onto the roof's overhang. Roland almost wondered if they were joined at the hip during their training. The daggers that had been threateningly held before now clattered on the cobbles below. Imogen stepped to where they were hanging and ignored their cries to be helped up.

"You let him stall you," she lilted venomously. "Shameful, absolutely shameful. I'll be astonished if they don't kick you out of the Guild for this. Perhaps you boys can deliver a message? Tell Lord Downey that you failed in your task. You'll also apologize and beg forgiveness." One of them started apologizing, the other let out a string of misogynistic curses.

"Don't tell me you're sorry," she said, "tell Lord Downey. You're sorry that you were late." She slammed her foot down on the fingers of the first, who fell two stories and audibly broke his legs. The other had pulled himself up to his chest back onto the rooftop, so she kicked him in the face. He fell flailing like a cockroach and his legs too broke from the impact, as well as the arm he landed on. Imogen was astonished the fall hadn't killed him and knew she was going to be in extra trouble for that one, but she allowed herself a feeling of satisfaction. Soon voices were heard below asking what was going on as the two boys squealed from their injuries. And in the darkness, Roland and Imogen had disappeared.


	6. Chapter 6

They waited in the shadows outside the Unseen University, Imogen expressing confidence that a drunken wizard would soon be coming their way. When asked how she knew, she informed him that at this hour of the night, there were always two or three that stayed out late and usually came back so drunk they didn't care if they got in trouble from their superiors. When they sobered up would be a different story. She did however have the uneasy hope that said truant wizard hadn't already been mugged and given a new home at the bottom of the river. That also happens at this hour of the night.

Standing by the University's outer wall, Imogen appeared more nervous waiting than she did before. Because they had escaped their previous incident, and to distract herself, she now asked Roland just how it was he had come to Ankh-Morpork. If not for the fact she had seen the slow mutant with her own eyes, and worse, she might not have believed him. She knew to keep an open mind but had her limits, as did most. She figured there was more to his story than he let on but didn't ask, not wanting to know what kind of world he had come from that appeared to make The Shades look positively utopian. They stood in silence for a few minutes after he finished and when Roland asked her if she was okay, she gave him an exasperated look.

"We aren't far from the Guild of Assassins," she said. "If something were to go wrong, here would be the most likely place. And I doubt they'll send fresh-faced graduates or apprentices this time." She turned to survey the area. "Nice work shocking them, by the way."

"Thanks," said Roland. "Little shits like that are generally more accustomed to spewing insults than receiving them. Especially the ones who've been sheltered most of their lives. Those two definitely were, otherwise they wouldn't have gaped and been so easy to dispatch. I don't have to tell you their upbringing probably dictated their lack of manners."

"I agree with that," she said. "Look sharp, I think we have a winner." Roland saw down the street a man in a disheveled red robe walking towards them, hiccuping and talking to himself. A pointed hat sat askew on top of his head and he appeared to be having an animated conversation with someone who wasn't there. Roland and Imogen pressed themselves further along the wall to remain undetected but it was unlikely the wizard approaching would have noticed. He opened the gate to the university and stood there swaying, allowing Roland and Imogen to sneak in. Roland turned and saw the drunken wizard ask nobody if his time was finally up, before keeling over. The gunslinger ran to help him up.

"That...that is..." came the wizard's faint voice.

"What is it?" Roland asked. "Who are you talking to?"

The wizard looked up and saw two pairs of blue eyes. "That's just dandy with me," he said to one pair, and turning to Roland he said, "Do me a favor and put me to bed." He then burped so heavily that it could have been ignited and within seconds was out and Roland could barely tell that he was breathing. Both the gunslinger and the assassin carried him inside and were intercepted by a wizard monitoring the hall.

"Who the hell are you two?" he demanded before noticing who they were carrying. "Rincewind, you bloody sot. Where the hell have you been? Oh, asleep are we?" He snapped his fingers beneath the unconscious wizard's nose. "Dammit, not again. I suppose I should thank you two but I must ask that you leave immediately."

"This man needs sanctuary," said Imogen, "and he needs to speak with the Archchancellor. I will go but only if you grant him this."

"I beg your pardon?" said the hall monitor. "You have no authority here, girl. And unless he's a wizard, he can bugger off right along with you. Only wizards allowed here."

 _Officious little turd,_ thought Roland. A wicked silver blade was suddenly pressed against the monitor's throat. Imogen's face was set in a way that was not to be negotiated with. While Roland kept the same stoic demeanor, inside he was laughing at the sight of the wizard whose beard and lips were now trembling.

"Just follow me," he said.

\-----

Several of the top faculty burst into the Great Hall where Roland and Imogen waited. They included Archchancellor Ridcully, the Dean, the Senior Wrangler, the Bursar, the Chair of Indefinite Studies and the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Ridcully wasn't sure why the last three had followed him in here, probably because that bloody monitor wossname had woken them along with the other senior staff. All while carrying a passed out Rincewind, for some reason or other. He saw the gunslinger and the girl standing in wait and approached them with his chest puffed and mood bellicose.

"Right then," said Ridcully. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? An armed girl and a strange man, both assassins by the sounds of things. Well, I'll not have it. Not on these grounds. Out with it!"

Imogen introduced herself quickly and confirmed she was from the Guild but this was not official Guild business. She then relayed the gunslinger's story and all the facts as she knew them, keeping a detached and emotionless tone regarding the circumstances of their meeting. She emphasized the importance of the wizards providing shelter for the gunslinger, who was not only her savior but was now being targeted by both the Assassins' Guild and the City Watch.

"You broke him out of prison, silly girl," said Ridcully. "I'd say you're just as much to blame for the Watch coming after him as he is. Quite irresponsible of you, though hardly surprising when you consider..." He looked her up and down as if to demonstrate.

"If you want to know what it's like to be a girl," Imogen gnarred, "please continue with that train of thought." Her dagger reappeared and glinted with intent.

"Perhaps it's best," interjected the Senior Wrangler, "if we heard from the subject himself. And avoid any needless conflict of course."

"Of course," said Ridcully, now clearly flustered. "What do you have to say for yourself, sir...uh, Ronald, was it?"

"Roland," said the gunslinger drily, "and what she has said is true. I set my watch and warrant on it."

"Right, as you say. Well, in that case, what is it you hope to accomplish by coming here?"

"To go home, and to find the man who hired the mutant that brought me here. I suspect that my coming to this city was no accident and if magic can bring me into this world, perchance similar magic can return me."

"I see. You want us to generate a portal to another plane of existence. Where exactly?"

"Mid-World. My home and my path to the Dark Tower. But first I must stop the man in black."

"A wizard of black magic, you indicate," Ridcully reiterated. "And this Dark Tower, is it where he came from? You're not seeking out a tower full of evil wizards?" The Archchancellor had a small shiver at this very concept.

"No," said Roland tersely. "It is a nexus that holds all worlds together. It is my duty to reach the Tower and ensure its protection from the forces of evil, who would seek to overthrow it and bring annihilation to all life."

"And who exactly sent you on this quest?" asked the Senior Wrangler, who wasn't sure if Roland was completely with it.

"That's an interesting tale," Roland responded, "and I don't reckon you'd believe me if I told you the short version."

"Try us," said the Dean, who was effectively hooked by the mystery. The other wizards remained skeptical.

"Very well," said Roland, taking a deep breath and forming a calculated expression. "Many years ago, my friends and I were sent east right before war broke out in my homeland of Gilead. It was a conflict long-expected and the influence of our enemy had taken hold well before he arrived at our doorstep. They called him The Good Man, though he was obviously anything but. He was in fact a cruel, manipulative egomaniac, responsible for the deaths of thousands, if not millions. And he was but one of many evils that had befallen our world, though his hand stretched far indeed. In our journey east, we uncovered a conspiracy and exposed disloyalties that would have dire consequences, leading to the downfall of Gilead any many other civilizations besides. My friends and my family were included among the slaughtered.

"Before this happened, however, we found one of the thirteen Bends in the Rainbow, which are a collection of magic crystal balls also known as a Wizard's Glass. Each represents one of the twelve Beams that lead to the Dark Tower; the thirteenth is representative of the Tower itself and is Black, however the one we found was the Grapefruit, named so as it was pink. These crystals are said to communicate and even travel across time and reality. The one I held in my hands showed me the past, the present and future, albeit perversions of these events. Only the most terrible events in reality appeared to be the complete truth, as the crystal fed upon my pain. Yet through the glass, I heard the voice of the Turtle and it was revealed that the Dark Tower would be my ultimate goal, that it was there I would climb to the top and stand against the wickedness that had consumed my world and all worlds connected."

"Ook," said an orangutan who had sauntered into the room without anyone noticing. "Ook-ook, eeek!" He was prodding the Dean with one of his fingers and the wizard presented him with a banana, which the orangutan gratefully accepted and consumed. With a look of befuddlement that seemed to have taken over his face ever since he emerged from the portal, Roland pointed at the ape and asked a silent inquiry of the wizards.

"This would be the Librarian," said the Dean, "and in case you're wondering, he was once a man but due to a magical incident, was transformed into the ape you see today. What's that? Oh, he wanted to know what was happening."

"Ook," said the Librarian, blowing a raspberry. Roland closed his eyes and counted to five and when they reopened, the crowd of wizards, orangutan included, as well as Imogen were waiting for him to continue.

"As I was saying," he said, "my path to the Tower came from a kind of divine intervention. It would take hours to tell you any further, but it might only cause you to feel distress. Travel between realms however is possible with the right magic and I believe that is why I am now standing before you. It is my hope you or your knowledge can offer a way to take the same path home."

"I assume you can prove all this," said Ridcully quizzically.

"Except for my presence and my guns, no, I cannot. Your world is strange to me, and I have only seen this city so far. I do not rightly know where I am, only how I got here."

"Question," said the Bursar, who was still trying to wake up. "What did you mean when you said you heard a turtle? Did I understand that right?"

"You did," said Roland. "Perhaps I should elaborate. There are twelve Beams that hold the Tower in place, each assigned a guardian to ensure the Beam remains stable across its path in all worlds. The Turtle is named Maturin and it is said that he was wise and kind, coming to the aid of those who fought for The White. Those who preserve the essence of good." He added this last sentence in case they were as confused of his world as he was of theirs.

"The reason I ask is, we have a turtle of our own. We call it Great A'Tuin, which holds the Discworld upon its back. Well, it holds four elephants, and they hold our world in place, but that's just splitting hairs when you think about it. I don't know about beams but I'm pretty sure A'Tuin flies in a straight line."

"There's no indication of that," the Chair of Indefinite Studies, "as for all we know the world turtle carries us with zig-zags and flips. Because the magic holding gravity together is so stable, we would never notice it."

"Well I prefer to think of it as straight lines," moaned the Bursar. "The very thought of the turtle doing stunts while it carries the weight of the world and four elephants on its back makes me queasy."

"Then don't think about it, you oaf," said Ridcully.

"I can't help it, it's in my head now!"

 _See the TURTLE of Enormous Girth, On his shell he holds the Earth,_ thought Roland impulsively. But it couldn't be. They must be toying with him now.

"Come to think of it," said the Senior Wrangler, "this divine tower of yours sounds a lot like the Cori Celesti, which is at the center of this world. Call it a tower or a spire, but it is the place where the gods reside. The path to it is hard and many men have died trying to reach the citadel at the top, but if you were to get there you would certainly make an impression."

Roland struggled to keep from swaying. If these wizards told the truth, he was not only atop the Turtle but closer to the Tower than he had ever been. It was too good to be true, and therefore it must not be, as Roland's pessimism brought him back to ground.

"You called this place the Discworld," he said to the Bursar, "what did you mean by that?"

"Our world is a disc," came the incredulous reply. "It's flat and bound by magic so we don't all fall of the sides, but it is stable enough to be borne by the world animals that carry us through the universe. In a straight line." A collective sigh came from the other wizards.

"And the tower of gods," said Roland with a touch of urgency, "pray, tell me what this looks like. How far is it from here?"

"A journey of several months," said Ridcully, stepping forward with an authoritarian manner. "You need to head to the Hub of the Disc and that means passing through forests, mountains and tundras of deep cold around the base of the spire. As to the spire's appearance, it is about ten miles high, formed from a mountain made of gray stone and ice of the deepest green. Not a dark tower per se, but one that is not meant for lesser beings such as mankind. Along the way you will come across thieves, trolls, witches and other terrors that populate such wild and uncivilized lands."

"Witches aren't so bad," mumbled the Dean. "Some are quite friendly. Even you know that."

"Shut up," hissed Ridcully. "That's personal." He laughed nervously and bade Roland pay no mind.

"I'm not interested in witches," said Roland gruffly. "What I am interested in are the properties of your world. How it is a disc, and how the turtle and tower play their parts to sustain it."

"Ook," said the Librarian, walking to the entrance and motioning for Roland to follow. The other wizards began heading in this direction, as well. Roland and Imogen caught each other's eye and shrugged alike. If assistance could be found, best to take it regardless of who was offering their hand.


	7. Chapter 7

The university library was vast and impressive, and Roland did not envy those tasked with maintaining its order. Those tasks fell primarily with the Librarian and for an ape, he was quite proficient. He immediately brought several books regarding different dimensions and ritual summoning, separating them by placing basic information in one stack and practical application in another.

"We also have another room where we keep our most perilous spells, but I'm afraid they would do you no good," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

"If it's because they would unleash actual hell rather than be of any use for what I require, then I understand," Roland replied.

"Glad to hear it," said the Archchancellor, expecting a more curious response. "We have a model of the Disc here in the library, if you wish to see it."

"Thankee-sai," said the gunslinger. He followed Ridcully to where it was displayed and saw that their world model was a flat circle, with a mechanical sun and moon that cycled over and below the Disc. It also carried by four large elephants on the back of an ever larger turtle. There were maps on the model that gave a basic idea of the various regions and continents, including a raised spire in the center to indicate the Cori Celesti. Roland found Ankh-Morpork on the map and traced a fairly direct line to the Hub via the Ramtops. As the crow flies, it did not appear to arduous a journey. Mountains were deceitful on a map, he knew, and so asked to any maps for individual regions. In nearby drawers were scrolls that displayed these maps in greater detail. Although he did his best to appear studious, with every read-through and explanation the wizard provided he became more crestfallen. This did not go unnoticed.

"What are you thinking?" asked Ridcully with a measure of concern.

"I could really use a nap," said Roland, "but mainly, I really hope you can conjure a way for me to return to my when and where. It seems I may have deceived myself. This world looks to have many wonders and none of them are for me to know."

"Don't be so glum. One can always experience something new and expand their learning, if they so wish. I'm not advocating that you learn the arts of wizardry, mind, but you shouldn't have to cut yourself off from the world."

"I appreciate your sentiment, but I speak as someone alien and wayward. Of course I would be interested in learning more about your world if it were my intention to be here. Alas, I only need to know enough to survive until I can return home. Pleasant surprises are acceptable but not sought."

"Pardon my stating the obvious, but you seem like a very lonely man. Is it only your quest that drives you?"

"You're not the first to observe this, nor do I wager the last. But you are correct, for everyone I have ever loved is dead. It is for their memories and honor that I must continue until my task is done, no matter how long it takes."

Ridcully pondered this motivation and how many heroes have said the same, before asking, "Do you not fear that you might fail or perish first?"

Roland gave him a lugubrious look and there were no words that needed to be spoken. He looked at the map of the Hub and aimlessly traced his finger through various known mountain paths.

"They say death is its own path," Roland muttered after a minute, "and that you may find yourself born again in another world or another place. I'm not entirely sure if that is true but if it is, then I should hope I can do what is needed of me. But I hear that voice often in my dreams assuring me that I will come to the Tower, even if I find its doors shut to me when I do."

"Roland," called Imogen, waving for him come over. He and Ridcully put their maps away and joined the other wizards, who were gathered around a long table and three stacks of books. These were the same the Librarian had presented before, with a couple of additions, now sorted in a way that the most relevant ones be referenced first. One stack was only three books high and the Chair of Indefinite Studies pointed out these were to be referred to as a last resort.

"You never know what's lurking on the other side," he said.

"Or above you," came a voice from one of the bookshelves.

They all looked up and saw three figures in dark robes crouching on top of the shelves, pointing crossbows at them. Assassins. The Librarian roared and one of the intruders aimed his arrow square at the ape's chest. The other two pointed at Roland and Imogen, respectively. Four others appeared from behind shelves that were closer to the library's entrance, all armed with blades and throwing weapons. The Chair fainted and the Lecturer quickly followed suit (though his was more obviously deliberate).

"We thank the rest of you to stay awake for these proceedings," said a taciturn man with pale hair and steely gray eyes. "We are here on the express command of Lord Downey and have no desire to inhume any of you. Just gives us the gonnes and the girl, and we will be on our way. And please, do not threaten us with your wizardly ways. We will maim you if it comes to that and will justify this on the grounds of self-defense."

"Self-defense?" snarled the Dean, "Hold still, and I'll show you self-defense." He raised his hands to conjure a fireball and a throwing knife took the hat off his head, pinning it to shelf behind him. An assassin to the left of the leader produced another such knife and wagged it slightly in warning. The Dean lowered his hands and cursed his aging reflexes.

"Well, glad we got that sorted," said the lead assassin with a humorless smile. He turned his attention to Roland and held out a hand. "And now the gonnes, please."

"These guns belong to me," said Roland fiercely, "and I refuse to entertain your baseless claims to the contrary."

"They 'belong' to you. A sentiment shared by many who have been enthralled by their majesty. It seems you need us to relieve you of them. Let us then perform our civic duties. You will also need to join us, for we wish to know how it is you came upon such forbidden knowledge."

"They are his," said Imogen. "I can vouch for him that this be the truth."

"Shut up, girl," snapped the one pointing his bow at her. Although all but the lead assassin how their hoods up to hide their faces, she knew this one to be in the same class as the two boys she and Roland had taken out earlier.

"Don't tell me what to do, boy," she retorted with emphasis on the last word. "You are nothing but a pawn with no clue as to the reality of the matter."

"There's no need for acrimony, either of you," said the leader with a smooth but venomous voice. "You, Imogen, will be dealt with in accordance of Guild ruling. Your fellow assassins were not killed so you will avoid inhumation, however your punishment will still befit your crime. Please do not make this any worse for yourself. You have earned a degree of leniency on account of tonight's earlier assault, but do not push your luck or our good graces. And do not fret, you will be questioned soon enough."

"Who are you, exactly?" asked Roland, walking forward slowly but keeping an eye on the others who were poised for attack.

"My name is of no consequence," said the assassin, glancing at the wizards to suggest that no name means no serious investigation could take place if a complaint were raised. Ridcully hated when they did that. He almost hoped somebody would die so that this invasion could not be ignored.

"Our demands are simple," the assassin continued, "relinquish your weapons and come with us. It might be that we release you unscathed, however it will be into the arms of the Watch. What happens from there is none of our concern. But we cannot have gonnes such as yours in the streets where they can cause serious harm to others. We already know what you are capable of and dread to think what others might do if they held such power."

"That is why they are in my possession," said Roland, "for I earned these at a young age through trial and combat. I am descended from Arthur Eld himself and these guns have been passed down by many generations. They have been extensions of myself for many years, many decades since. Nobody shall strip them from me, for they are my right by blood and by oath."

"Pretty words, but meaningless. You could have made that up and memorized it for anyone who challenged you. We of the Guild are not so easily fooled and have our own doctrines regarding weaponry and who has earned their status in wielding them. Now, if you please, do not make this any worse than it needs to be."

A whistling sound was heard and Imogen found a quarrel sticking out of her chest, having pierced right though her heart. She grabbed it in surprise as her knees buckled and she fell onto the floor. Roland came to her side, crouching beside her and holding her head off the ground. She looked at him as if she were begging and small rivulet of blood fell from the corner of her mouth. She cupped his cheek in one hand and he expected her to say something; a plea, a farewell or even just his name like so many others had as he comforted them in death, yet she only stared at him until her face slackened and her eyes became distant. Her hand fell limply and her breathing stopped. He laid her down carefully and stood, facing the attacker who had fired without instruction. His eyes met the boy's and and though he wore an expression of shock, Roland knew this murder was purposeful.

Everything happened all at once and yet in slow motion. He could hear voices calling his name and for him not to do anything rash. He could hear the lead assassin hotly screaming at the boy for firing without command, who in turn bleated that it had been an accident. He could see in his periphery the wizards were all ducking for cover. For they had seen his hands move toward his guns and knew enough not to be caught in the line of fire. The lead assassin also noticed the revolvers had been raised but too late saw one was pointing directly at his head.

"Ah shit," he said as Roland fired a bullet right between his eyes. The other fired into the fool who had shot first, and both bullets landed true at the the same time. Quarrels and throwing stars quickly flew into the gunslinger's direction, who deftly dodged all of them and fired a few out of the air. The two perched on top of the bookshelves received a bullet to the chest each as the other three began charging with the daggers raised, doing flips and cartwheels while moving in odd directions and taking cover. Roland ducked behind one of the shelves and waited for the opportunities to present themselves. Since they were moving so fast, they weren't being silent and so he could anticipate when to fire a lethal round if they got too close. One made the mistake of leaping right in front of him with a dagger in one hand and a fistful of throwing stars in the other. A split second later he was blasted into the opposite shelves, spilling blood and weapons gracelessly.

Another bounded over the shelf where Roland was waiting and tried to grab him from behind. He might have slit the gunslinger's throat if Roland had not instinctively stamped on his ankle as he did his previous mutant attacker. Even though his boot did not penetrate this assassin's flesh, it did cause enough pain for him to be released from the attacker's grip. Roland swiveled around and fired point blank into the assassin's forehead, reflexively shutting his eyes as blood spattered onto his face. He wiped it off grimly, turning to see the final assassin was holding the Archchancellor by the neck with his blade positioned inside the wizard's right ear.

"Don't make me do it!" shouted the assassin, now in the throes of panic. "Drop your gonnes, I'm bloody warning you."

"No," said Roland.

"I'll skewer this geezer's brains, I mean it!"

"And then you'll die with dishonor. Just like the rest of them. You should drop your blade and surrender. It makes no difference to me."

"Ahem, it might not to you but I can see a major difference," bawled Ridcully, whose face had turned a deep shade of red.

"Let him go or die," Roland said flatly. One barrel was trained on the assassin, the other held to his side ready to be brought up. The assassin licked his lips, his feet shaking with the need to run. The gunslinger wasn't bluffing and it was becoming harder to keep his grip on the old wizard. Realizing his defiance was pointless, he slowly released Ridcully, who sharply elbowed him in the jaw before diving under the table. Roland was suddenly standing inches before him as he blinked the haze of pain away. His blade was confiscated and he was made to kneel before the gunslinger, ever watchful of the weapon pointed at his temple.

"Do you doubt now that these guns are my property?" whispered Roland. The assassin shook his head.

"Wise answer. Your lot have caused a serious mess and are responsible not only for their own destruction but the homicide of an innocent woman, even if she was an assassin herself. Do you dispute this?"

"No," the man mumbled and Roland took down his hood. He appeared to be in his late twenties and definitely the type who should know better by this point. Maybe he did and was just following orders. Still, that was no excuse to take a hostage like some common criminal.

"If I release you," Roland continued, "what will you do next?"

"I will inform the Guild of what has happened. That...that we have brought shame to our order, that you are in fact the rightful owner of these gonnes and that the men who died here tonight were killed in hot blood, after the girl was killed coldly."

"In those words exactly?"

"To that effect. Lord Downey will want more details and will probably have me tortured or inhumed for failing to acquire our targets. You are a frightening man but you haven't met him. He's not as merciful as he lets on."

"Neither am I." Yet with that, Roland holstered his guns and helped the assassin to his feet, despite the chagrined protests of the wizards.

"We can't just let him walk out of here, not after what he's done!" Ridcully bellowed as he pulled himself up.

"Ook!" agreed the Librarian, gesturing to the damaged books and gore ridden corpses. "Ook-ook OOOK! EEEK!!"

"What did he say?" asked the assassin.

"You don't want to know," said the Dean, who gave three bananas to the Librarian. These were accepted and masticated with rage.

"Best run along, then," he continued, "before something nasty happens. When he goes full ape on you, you'll be lucky to have a limb left in its socket. But make sure you return for the bodies and with the appropriate authorites. I will speak on the Archchancellor's behalf and of those here today."

"I'm a witness," piped up the Bursar, swallowing a handful of dried frog pills from his robe. "Tell your lord that I will be counting the cost of the damages and he can expect a very high bill."

The assassin nodded and practically flew out of the library and into the night. Ridcully gave the Dean an approving pat on the shoulder, admiring that every so often the man could surprise him. He thought about doing the same for the Bursar but saw the man was counting the attackers' weapons, starting with the ones that were still in the pockets of the fallen. He grimaced and went to compliment Roland instead, but found him kneeling again by Imogen's side, softly closing her eyes and holding the hand that had given him her last caress. It was wiser leave him be.


	8. Chapter 8

Dawn was only a few hours away but it seemed like an eternity would pass before the sun would bring its fluid light over the rim. In that darkness, Roland has been escorted to the High Energy Magic building, as it was the least likely place on the campus that he would be found and arguably the most efficient location to open a gateway without summoning a demon. He was not convinced by their attempts at reassurance on this last point and even less so when he saw only one person working inside, one considerably younger than the men who he had been acquainted with so far. The younger man introduced himself as Ponder Stibbons, the Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic. His handshake was light and his palm was clammy.

"Roland," said the gunslinger, not caring to give a title, "and I have been told you are the foremost authority regarding interdimensional portals."

"Well, I should be so humbled," blushed Stibbons with a smile that was anything but.

"Where are the rest of your crew, Stibbons?" asked Ridcully, as the other wizards began laying out books on one of the benches.

"I should think they're asleep, sir," he said. "After all, they'd been working for hours non-stop and I deemed in necessary that they all get at least three hours' rest."

"More than what the rest of us will get," grumbled the Senior Wrangler. "Now then, since we are all awake and have committed ourselves to this assignment, perhaps you can help us."

"Pardon me," said the Lecturer of Recent Runes, "but I think the Chair of Indefinite Studies and I should help the Librarian with the mess back there. Besides, this young man can do more than either of us could at this stage."

"Agreed," said the Chair, anxious to be anywhere where Roland wasn't.

"Whatever," said Ridcully, "but I'm joining you. Somebody has to keep an eye on the Dean, and those assassins. I'm not going to let mine slip a second time."

"Wait, assassins?" asked Stibbons. "What exactly is going on here? Come to think of it, where did this Roland person come from?"

"Horace, would you please," Ridcully stated dismissively, following the other two wizards out. "I'll come back later to check in on you all."

With that, the door to the HEM closed and now it was just the Senior Wrangler, the put-upon Ponder and Roland, who had taken a seat and opened one of the books. He was astonished he could actually read what was before him, as the calligraphy and lettering were not dissimilar from that in his own world, though it was an oddly more eloquent variation of the low speech. As he read and distracted his mind with concepts that went into one eye and out the other, the Senior Wrangler briefed the younger wizard on the night's events. Roland tried to ignore the wide-eyed look of consternation that crossed Stibbons' face as the tale came to a close.

"You killed all those men, and survived unscathed?" Stibbons asked with disbelief. Roland looked up and conveyed what could have been ennui or dejection.

"Story of my life," he said tonelessly, "though nobody really survives unscathed. Your body may be intact but your heart loses another piece of itself. I often wonder how much of mine is left." He went back to reading the book, seeing the words and connecting with none of them. As the other two began sorting through the books and isolating possible rituals, Roland halfheartedly closed his and pushed it back towards the pile. He sat staring at nothing for a time, numb to the words of encouragement and frustration from the others working hard to give him the help he requested. Eventually one of them brought him water, which he accepted impassively. He imagined the water was whiskey, vaguely disheartened that it could not be true. When they asked him for reference so that they might isolate a possible path, he would only say Mid-World. While this was true, it served only to puzzle the wizards even further.

Eventually, Ridcully returned with the Dean and the Bursar in tow, with even the Librarian following. The orangutan leapt onto the table and began sorting the discarded books, not needing any instruction to understand they had been considered and cast aside. Both the Dean and the Bursar joined the Senior Wrangler in cross-referencing spells and known dimensions. Stibbons however took Ridcully aside to speak about the gunslinger.

"He's been sitting there this whole time," he whispered, "completely disconsolate and uninterested in our results."

"Do you have any?" asked Ridcully.

"We're getting there. I think. Honestly, I have no damn clue and he's not helping. Mustrum, are you sure he is who he says?"

"The man saved my life and those of the senior staff. And he just watched a friend of his die. Of course he's not going to be in the best spirits but after what I saw, I have little doubt in my mind he's telling the truth. He'll come around." To avoid further discomfort, Ponder elected not to expand on the subject.

Two of the student wizards entered the building, mumbling to each other that three hours was not enough and paused when the saw the gathering of the senior staff, along with a man they'd never seen before.

"Turnipseed, Llwyd, glad you could join us," said Stibbons. He turned to Roland and introduced them fully. "Adrian Turnipseed and Maxen Llwyd, two rising stars in my class and top competitors in their scores. More importantly, both well-versed in scientific methods regarding space and time. It's tough between these two whom I'm going to choose as my protege."

Turnipseed blushed, not wanting the attention at this hour of the morning and feeling queerly singled out. Llwyd was competent but did not score anywhere near as notably. He glanced over and saw that his fellow student was averting his eyes, hiding by pretending he couldn't see the other wizards there. He felt like doing the same and wondered if Stibbons would have given the same introduction to any other pair who happened to walk in first.

"What's going on here?" asked Turnispeed, prompting Stibbons to have an involuntary spasm of the shoulders. Either he had asked the wrong thing or a ghost had just tickled his spine.

"We are researching interdimensional portals," his teacher answered a touch over-enthusiastically.

"Again? I thought we were researching applied mechanized echolocation this week."

"Mecha-what now?" asked the Dean. "Are you trying to control destructive magic?"

"No, that's not it at all. It's a way to learn your surroundings and what objects or lifeforms are around you by using sound. We're trying to devise a way to do that with a contraption that can help others who are blind or lost in the dark."

"Quite altruistic," said Ridcully, "though I wonder what spells are required for it to work."

"That's what were are researching, sir," said Llywd, "though I faill to see what interdimensionall magic has to do with it. Allll our studies have shown that it need only be llocallized and properlly contained. That's how animalls use it in the willd, though it comes naturalllly to them."

"Very good," said the Archchancellor with a smile, secretly wishing the lad would do something about his Llamedosian accent. Some found their constant use of doubled L's musical but he found it distracting.

"We'll dwell on echolocation later," said Stibbons, "but for right now, we are trying to generate a portal to another universe and need all the minds we can gather."

They spent close to an hour and a half going through different spells and proven theories of travel through time and space. They discussed and dismissed several rituals while putting a few to the side as possibilities for later experimentation. Books, research folders and scrawled diagrams on several chalkboards were studied with fervent attention. Roland gave suggestions when he could, recognizing he was the main variable that was confounding their equations. He left them to the majority of the discussion, not wanting to say something foolish or irrelevant. All he knew were basic mystical aspects to crossing dimensions and he even so, he didn't completely understand how they worked. He merely accepted them and what they could do. But as minutes passed with the speed of days, the frustration in the room grew thicker and soon even promising leads were scrapped from either impracticality or pre-existing knowledge of hazardous denizens. What little they could agree upon that would open a door to unknown territory was second-guessed and deconstructed until they came to the conclusion it likely wasn't worth risking.

"We're getting nowhere with this," growled the Dean, throwing a piece of chalk in a random direction. It happened to break apart on Hex, the High Energy Magic building's super-computer. If figures of speech could manifest themselves, they would have seen a glowing light bulb over the Dean's head.

"Why don't we put the data into Hex?" he asked Stibbons, who wrung his hands nervously as the Dean explained to Roland what the machine was. The gunslinger appeared cautiously intrigued and stood up from his seat.

"We have had some trouble with Hex lately," came the hesitant reply. "Frankly, I've avoided asking any questions due the oddities that come from the results. More unusual than normal, I should stress."

"How do you mean?"

"Just the other day when I input information regarding the hunting abilities of bats apropos our current projects, the results that came back were an error message telling me to kill all bats or wait for the anthill to thaw. I then requested to wait and after five minutes, it asked for a replacement blue cheese container."

Ridcully sat down, getting a headache from trying to imagine yet another glitch out of the damned machine and wondered why he even let the infernal thing be constructed.

"Why don't we try it anyway," Roland said, willing to explore any avenue by this point. "You haven't really come up with anything of use with your theories thus far."

"Well, no offense to you Roland," said Stibbons with slight apprehension, "but this is highly specialized equipment which we don't normally use in front of outsiders. Plus with all the problems we have had lately, I doubt it will do you any good."

"You can doubt all you like but I won't be satisfied until you make the effort. Show me it is of no use and then we can try it again your way."

"I appreciate you're under a lot of stress but we are the experts here. Trust me when I say we will have this figured out for you but it will take time. As the senior staff are often happy to point out, old-fashioned experience comes up with better results than relying on machines."

"Then why have it? You run this machine, surely you can fix it. Even I know such objects of convenience become more unreliable from disuse and lack of maintenance. What's your excuse?"

"I don't have to take this. Not from some stranger who broke into our campus and has been an utter ingrate the whole time we've offered our services."

"Listen, boy," Roland harshly intoned as he stalked right up where the young wizard was standing, cornering him against a workbench. "My old teacher had a saying for reluctance such as yours. 'If you cannot piss in front of another man, then you cannot hope to wield a gun.'"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" cried Stibbons, both petrified and flummoxed.

"It means that if you cannot perform a simple task before an audience, then there is little hope you can perform a major task that is expected of you. It means you have forgotten your father's face. My life is in the balance and I will not have you procrastinate any further by getting precious about your fucking machine."

"Get on with it," growled Ridcully, the other wizards vocalizing their agreement. Ponder squirmed away from the gunslinger and pulled the GBL to wake up Hex. He fed the computer information about interdimensional travel between universes, multiverses and demon-haunted portals, referring to the more plausible results from the night's research. As he did so, the Dean sidled up to Roland and whispered, "Did your teacher really say that to your class?"

"No," said Roland without changing his expression, "though it would not have shocked me if he had." He heard the wizard snicker and kept his own humor inside.

"Got something," said Stibbons after a few minutes of the machine's whirling. The ants working the paternoster seemed exhausted to Roland, who really hoped the singular card the machine had produced had some good news. Ridcully took the card from Stibbons and held it aloft, reading aloud the printed message:

+++Positive results: 16%. Error - Does not compute. Wrong way, go back.+++

"Well, I..." said Stibbons, shifting in place, "perhaps something a bit more exact might work. Do you happen to know the coordinates of where you are meant to go?" He regretted this immediately as he had already asked Roland the same question earlier.

"For fuck's sake," snarled Roland, pushing his way to the machine. One of them admonished him on his language but he didn't care to see who. He looked at the ants and the components that connected Hex together carefully before turning to Ponder with a stare that could freeze an inferno.

"Instruct this device," said Roland slowly, "to give information about Mid-World. About the todash darkness. About the Dark Tower and the paths of the Beams. Any information regarding portals to worlds other than these that have not been created here."

Ponder swallowed and proceeded to input Roland's instructions to the letter, not wishing to misinterpret anything and risk being skinned for rawhide. This time Hex took only a minute before producing a new result.

+++Does not compute. Food is a metaphor. See also: List of ancient ruins. EMERGENCY POWER ONLY. All cheesemaking operations suspended.+++

Ponder's face screwed into one like a child bracing to be severely beaten for not cleaning his room. Instead of receiving expected punishment, he heard the gunslinger sigh and mutter, "I should have known. Waste of goddamn time."

"Perhaps not," said Ridcully with a knowing expression. "It might be that were were indeed going about this the wrong way. Instead of using Hex, we should have considered a ritual that is older and generally more reliable. Consulted someone who is bound to tell the unadulterated truth."

"No," said Stibbons, "you don't mean..."

"We must invoke the Rite of AshkEnte," affirmed Ridcully.

"But...the last time he was here..." Ponder Stibbons shuddered emphatically.

"That's what happens," said the Dean, "when you experiment without taking the right safety precautions. At least nobody actually died."

"Much to his disappointment! And besides, after what happened tonight I don't think it's the greatest idea to invite him back so soon."

"Now now, no need for that. You're going to be needed in this ritual. As are Turnipseed and...sorry, what was your name?"

"Llwyd," said Maxen, ready to swan dive into the Ankh.

"Then let's get to it," said Ridcully. "Plus, we have all the materials here and our guest has clearly been vexed enough." He turned to Roland and gave him an avuncular smile, or what could pass for one. "Consider yourself fortunate. It isn't often outsiders witness so much within these walls as you have."

"I'm honored," said Roland sardonically.


	9. Chapter 9

Roland stood back as Ridcully and seven other wizards performed their strange ritual, standing in octagon formation and invoking rites as the atmosphere in the room began to change. The array of paraphernalia was bizarre enough but the use of a specific measure of mouse blood seemed oddest of all. They did not say what the ritual entailed, only that it would provide him the answers that he sought.

"Probably...we think," said the Dean, unhelpfully. "Put it this way, you have a better chance getting an answer out of him than out of our books. No offense, Librarian."

"Ook," the orangutan replied. Roland half-expected the ape make a rude gesture for emphasis.

As Ridcully raised his voice with each incantation, the gunslinger saw the other wizards grow increasingly more afraid, Stibbons and his students especially. He hoped that he didn't just get suckered into witnessing a demonic ritual after trying to avoid one and had to keep his hands still. Finally, when the fervor seemed to reach its peak a silhouette began to take shape in the center of the octogram. Many of the wizards stepped back but Ridcully remained firmly in place, vaguely aware that Roland now stood by his side.

The gunslinger could hardly believe his eyes. There he was. Summoned into the octogram was a figure cloaked in shadows, emanating darkness and finality. The man in black. Roland could just see his wicked grin begin to materialize, however he appeared skeletal rather than human. Symbolizing his nature, perhaps. Roland's hands instinctively went to his guns. At last, he would have words with this monster and bring him to justice. As the phantasm solidified and became a physical presence, Roland saw he held in his wretched, bony right hand…

A mug that read "To The World's Greatest Grandad", with a crude picture of a teddy bear. In his other hand, the man in black held his robe between thumb and index finger, inspecting it with displeasure. A large wet splotch covered the front of the robe and the scent of peppermint permeated the air.

"Great manifestation of Darkness," said Ridcully, "bringer of all ends, we do summon thee here—"

OH, SHUT UP, growled Death inimically. I CAN’T EVEN ENJOY A CUP OF TEA WITHOUT YOU DOTARDS YANKING ME INTO ONE OF YOUR ASININE RITES. AND YOU MADE ME SPILL!

"I'm sure it'll come out," said the Bursar. "Besides, peppermint's not a bad scent. It could be worse."

"Quiet, you fool," murmured Ridcully out of the corner of his mouth. He smiled ingratiatingly. "What I think he means to say is that we offer our sincerest apologies."

INDEED. AND I SAY ANY SCENT CAN BECOME UNBEARABLE AFTER A TIME, IF LEFT TO MOLDER. He snapped his fingers and both the scent and stain were gone. He then peered into the mug and drank whatever was left. All the while Roland stared, not sure to make of what he saw. This was not the man in black but literally Death itself - or himself, if the mug was a true indicator. And just as Death had been described in Mid-World and in doubtless many others, here he was a tall skeleton in a black robe, his eye sockets empty except for two tiny pinpricks of blue light like far-off stars. When he spoke, his mouth didn't appear to move and his voice came directly into his thoughts. The sound was deep and grave, like a sepulcher below ground being slowly sealed. Roland again found himself wondering whether this was all a fever dream or if this world was the epitome of madness.

NOW, said Death. WHAT QUESTIONS DO YOU HAVE THIS TIME? AND MAKE THEM QUICK. I HAVE WORK TO DO AND THIS IS EATING AWAY AT MY BREAK.

"Of course, Your Magnificence," said Ridcully. "We shall not keep you long from your duties, though for now we charge you to abjure—"

SKIP THE CEREMONY, WIZARD. THIS RITUAL IS AN INCONVENIENCE AND YOU KNOW IT.

"Very well," Ridcully huffed. He gestured to Roland. "This man is not of our world. He came here through a passage of magic. A doorway that must be generated either by mystic objects, spells or some portal of interdimensional travel within the multiverse, as he describes it. Magic for which we frankly do not have."

I SEEM TO REMEMBER OTHERWISE, said Death drily.

"It's not just our universe, he is not of our reality," insisted Ridcully. "We know of other worlds and other dimensions but his plane of existence doesn't align with ours. He speaks of turtles and towers of divine significance that sound similar to ones found in our Disc but are hugely different. We have scoured the libraries and cannot find anything that goes beyond what we can achieve here. We have tried other rituals—"

HAVE YOU? queried Death.

"Well okay, no," Ridcully admitted, "but the ones we looked into were ultimately not promising. And I certainly am not about to tap an eldritch terror or other atrocity into our world. Not that they need assistance. Be that as it may, we have looked at it from angles and I don't think even a sourcerer can achieve this." He paused for a breath, as every word spoken to Death's immovable face became patently futile. Something the gunslinger mentioned in the library returned to him.

"The only other way through is to die, or so it seems. And as he is very much alive, we ask if you can give some advice on how he can return to his own plane of reality, maybe even aid him. Perhaps there are doorways that we cannot conjure that you can."

Death cocked his head, and after a moment's wait replied, YOU DRAGGED ME ALL THE WAY FROM MY DOMAIN TO ASK ME THIS? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I HAVE ANY IDEA ABOUT PORTALS TO OTHER UNIVERSES THROUGH MAGICS THAT ARE NOT OF OUR MACROCOSM?

"Well..." Ridcully hesitated, "you are Death, omnipresent and godlike in your own right, therefore you are connected to the acts of dying and rebirth in this world and in all others. I would assume that also includes what comes after the demise of a corporeal being."

YES, INSOFAR AS I AID IN USHERING DEPARTED SOULS INTO THE AFTERLIFE ONCE THEIR BODILY LIVES ARE FINISHED. THAT DOESN'T MAKE ME AN INTERDIMENSIONAL LOCKSMITH.

"Well, so much for this idea," said the Senior Wrangler. "I guess you're stuck here, Roland. If Death can't help you, I don't know who can."

"You're not helping, Horace," snapped Ridcully. He turned back to Death with a face like granite. "Is there no way in your power, with your abilities, for you to help this man? You could at least give us some idea of what we can do!"

IT IS TRUE I HAVE SEEN DOMINIONS BEYOND YOUR PERCEPTION. I HAVE ALWAYS SERVED POWERS FAR GREATER THAN I, SO GREAT THAT I DO NOT EXPECT YOU WOULD BEGIN TO IMAGINE THEM. THAT IN NO WAY MEANS I CAN SEND THIS MAN TO ANOTHER WORLD AND ANOTHER REALITY, FOR I AM NOT PART OF THAT REALITY, DESPITE DEATH ITSELF BEING CONCOMITANT IN ALL EXISTENCE.

"Well, he's not part our ours, yet here stands," said Ridcully, losing patience with Death. "I grow tired of repeating myself, as I am sure you are tired of listening. Explain then how is it he can travel from one existence to another and you cannot."

Death held his face in his palm. He too was losing what little patience he had to begin with. Neither of them had actually looked at Roland, nor did they notice his bewildered countenance despite Ridcully's gestures. Never in his life did he imagine he would see someone bickering with the Grim Reaper, and a wizard at that. _Cuthbert would be in tears laughing by now,_ he thought.

HOW MANY TIMES MUST I PHRASE THIS? Death groaned. THE ACT OF DYING IS COMMON. I, THE PERSONIFICATION OF DEATH IN THIS WORLD, AM UNIQUE TO THIS WORLD. YOU KNOW THIS. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS MAN CAME HERE, AS YOU ALLEGE. I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO SEND HIM BACK. QUITE FRANKLY, I COULD NOT CARE LESS.

"I have seen malignant forces who bring doom and blackness," said Roland suddenly, stepping towards the octogram. "I have seen conjurers and wicked men of shadow who leave chaos and misery in their wake, their bootprints steeped in blood. I have seen grins shape the face of those who could not be called men, but agents of evil and damnation. Death follows them all and defines who they are. Just as it has come to define me. But I have never truly seen the Grim Reaper, the true Reaper and not some imitator, in the flesh until now. And you are far less grim than I imagined."

Death's face swiveled towards Roland with a hard stare, the blue in his eye sockets flaring. Murmers and shudders came from the wizards, the Bursar forgetting his manners and exclaiming "Oh shit!" over the din. Death regarded Roland. He looked at his guns, then at the haunted, haggard face that had seen enough tragedies and wonders to last a dozen lifetimes. There was something else Death could sense. An age to this man that felt cyclical rather than accumulated. This was a man who had encountered the end of life, and had brought it, far too many times to reasonably record. Death leaned forward and the gunslinger could feel the light from his eyes boring into him, like freezing pins or vampire teeth.

YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE, said Death eventually. BUT YOU CAN DIE HERE JUST AS EASILY.

"I know," said Roland, matching his stare, the blue in his eyes almost as pale. "And if the one responsible did not die with me, I will make it so they wished that they had. All roads lead to the Tower, and if I must take the path of dying to reach my journey's end, so be it."

Death would have raised his eyebrows, if he had any. This was no empty threat from a man who wanted to appear brave. He was practically suicidal and yet driven by purpose. A man like that should meet the fate in store for him. And Death perceived it would not be on this world but in another. A very long time from now.

THERE ARE NO ROADS HERE THAT WILL TAKE YOU WHERE YOU SEEK, responded Death. BUT I CAN SEE THAT YOU WERE NOT MEANT TO WALK AMONG US. AND IF A PATH LED YOU ASTRAY FROM THE ONE OF YOUR DESTINY, PERHAPS ONE CAN BE MADE TO LEAD YOU HOME. I CANNOT PAVE SUCH A WAY, NOR CAN THE WIZARDS EVIDENTLY, BUT I BELIEVE I KNOW WHO CAN.

He turned back to Ridcully. DOES THIS SATISFY YOU?

"Anything that can resolve this episode, I am okay with," the wizard responded.

With that, Death disappeared and the mug dropped to the ground. It might have shattered had he not reappeared a split-second later, catching it a centimeter above the floor. He exhaled heavily and both reaper and mug disappeared into the ether.


	10. Chapter 10

It was not often that Death traveled to Dunmanifestin for he generally had no reason to. But sometimes the gods would appear to him, usually with an agenda, and so it seemed to him appropriate that he in turn do the same with the knowledge he now possessed. He had one god in particular at the forefront of his mind and as the Lady would have it, he was sitting across from her right now, a small smile on his face as he executed a finishing move.

"Death by mauling," she whispered bitterly, "from three half-starved tigers. I have to hand it to you, Fate, you really were creative with the consequences this time."

"Don't give me all the credit," Fate snickered, "for after all, this particular emperor has a penchant for the sadistic. Against such a mercurial mind, your gladiator never stood much of a chance. Though he did come close. I suppose the real pity was that our game ended so quickly."

The Lady smiled without warmth and stood, noticing Death as she did so. Her face abruptly lost all emotion except for her green eyes, which widened slightly. Fate turned at her expression and his visage took a similar form. Suddenly all the gods were focused on the Death's intrusion. In the silence of the stares, he found himself to be somewhat self-conscious.

"What in the blazes are you doing here?" asked Fate, as Death walked towards him.

I AM HERE WITH A REQUEST, said Death. A CALL FOR AID, YOU MIGHT SAY.

"For aid?" asked Blind Io, who could recognize the owner that saturnine voice even with his all-seeing eyes closed. "Since when do you of all entities require our help? No disrespect, of course."

NONE TAKEN, he said, slightly reproachful. I AM HERE SPECIFICALLY TO SPEAK WITH FATE. I BELIEVE HIM TO BE THE ONLY GOD TO HANDLE SUCH A DELICATE MATTER. INDEED, I BELIEVE ONLY HE CAN PERFORM A MIRACLE THAT WILL ALTER NOT ONLY THE BALANCE OF ONE LIFE BUT ALL CREATION. IF HE'S UP TO THE TASK, OF COURSE.

All eyes turned to Fate, who stared at the face of Death with the utmost solemnity. His mouth began to screw and before long, Fate was braying in laughter.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he sputtered. "I know I shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't help myself. After all, you're here to tempt me. Of all gods. It's too delicious." He wiped at his eyes and when he saw that Death was unmoved, began laughing even harder. He appeared to ignore that the ambience of their surroundings had become colder than an Ice Giant's heart and when he was about spent, gestured to the seat opposite him where the Lady had been sitting before.

"Please, ahem," he said, trying to choke back his mirth, "take a seat. I will listen."

Death made his way to the chair and sat down, silently and with dignity. He propped his scythe against the table and rested his elbows on the surface, his hands clasped in a steeple. One could mistake him for being the party about to listen to an odd or crazy request, which in normal circumstances would be the case.

I COME TO YOU, Death began, AS I NEED YOU TO ASSIST IN SENDING A MORTAL MAN TO ANOTHER WORLD. NOT ANOTHER WORLD IN OUR UNIVERSE, MIND, BUT ANOTHER PLANE OF EXISTENCE ENTIRELY. ONE FROM WHENCE HE CAME, AS A MATTER OF FACT. AND BEFORE YOU ASK, HE IS NOT DEAD AND I HAVE NO INTENTION OF REAPING HIM. NOR CAN I SEND HIM TO WHERE HE NEEDS TO GO.

"I see," said Fate, his smile reducing itself to something between a smirk and a sneer. "You came here so I could perform an improbable task. Something so outlandish that no mere mortal could hope to accomplish this feat in a million lifetimes. On behalf of the wizards, I intuit."

CORRECT. AND YOU SAID 'IMPROBABLE', SO THAT MEANS YOU CAN DO IT.

"Maybe. I choose my words wisely and have no wish to dismiss you. Yet. To send someone to another dimension within the universe would indeed require a spell the wizards cannot conjure. Or maybe they could, if they were brave enough."

YOU MISUNDERSTAND, said Death. I DO NOT REFER TO ANOTHER DIMENSION THAT IS KNOWN BUT AN UNKNOWN REALITY, ANOTHER UNIVERSE ALTOGETHER. ONE WHERE THE STAKES ARE HIGH AND THE LIVES OF ALL THINGS ARE THE CURRENCY.

"So basically the games I play now," said Fate sarcastically. "Except now my opponent is embodiment of the final consequence. Speaking of which, you may have noticed a certain Colosseum..."

ALREADY TAKEN CARE OF. PERHAPS I SHOULD SAY THIS ANOTHER WAY: IF YOU DO NOT HELP, THEN THE LIVES OF COUNTLESS WILL BE LOST. I MEAN THAT LITERALLY, FOR EVEN I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO KEEP UP WITH THE RATE OF THE EVER-SPREADING DEVASTATION THAT WOULD FOLLOW. IT MIGHT BE EASIER TO SAY ALL WILL DIE. EVEN THE ETERNAL.

"An event where even the gods must die," mused Fate. "Coming from you, this is serious business." His own hands formed a steeple and he rested his chin upon them, gazing at the board ponderously. He looked back up at Death and the stars in his eyes glittered. "How can I resist?"

THEN YOU WILL HELP...NO. YOU WILL MAKE A GAME OF IT. It was as Death suspected. Fate stared back at him cannily.

"I am not one for lending a hand as a gesture of goodwill," said Fate. "A god intervening on behalf of a mortal? A hero, perhaps? How Ephebian. No, I think we should make this more of a trial. See if this mortal of yours can earn such an intercession."

The stars in Fate's eyes shone brighter now, swirling like a mist as they anticipated the possibilities that could come from such a contest. Complexities and permutations danced within those stars, all with ruthless intent. From these inner workings, Fate decided on the rules by which this game was to be played. Before he could open his mouth to lay down the groundwork, Death took him by surprise.

WE SHALL HAVE A STARING CONTEST. AND THE FIRST ONE TO LOOK AWAY LOSES. THE RULES ARE SIMPLE. IF I WIN, YOU MUST LEND YOUR ASSISTANCE. IF YOU WIN, THEN THE MORTAL I SPEAK OF WILL NEED TO MAKE HIS OWN WAY. IS THIS FAIR?

"A staring contest?" asked Fate incredulously. "You mean to gamble with the lives of all in existence with a children's game? You don't even have eyelids, so it's hardly fair."

AND HERE I THOUGHT THAT UNFAIR ODDS WERE YOUR FORTE. IT APPEARS THAT I WAS WRONG. Death stood up. YOU AREN'T UP TO THE TASK.

Fate rocketed out of his chair and slammed his palms on the table. His face had gone red and his eyes were now black as ink.

"How dare you!" Fate hissed. "The gall to come to this sacred ground, disgrace its very foundations with your moribund existence and to mock a god? One whose powers equal, nay, surpass your own? You are not worthy to walk among us! Begone then, I cast you out!"

I WAS ALREADY LEAVING. AND IF I WERE YOU, I WOULD NOT BE SO QUICK TO PRESUME YOUR STATUS.

"Death is right," said Blind Io. "I do not want him to be here either, but I would rather he exit of his own accord. It's one thing to tempt Fate, but another to cheat Death."

"What do you mean 'cheat'?" cried Fate. "We haven't even competed in his stupid challenge and you accuse me of being a cheater? Just how blind are you?"

"You were thinking of it," purred the Lady, savoring every moment of this tantrum. "Perhaps that is why you won't agree to his terms. It would be all but impossible for you to win."

Fate opened his mouth wide to let out a fiery tirade but froze, considered these words and gradually composed himself. The Lady made a motion of restraint to one of Blind Io's eyes, which had grown red with rage but now began to simmer. As Io lowered himself back to his throne, Fate turned to Death and smiled like a shark approaching blood. 

"All but impossible," he said, "ergo, improbable. Oh, you are clever Death. Very clever. Setting your own rules to give me what you believe to be the ultimate challenge while toying with my temper. You almost had me, but no, I'm not that easy. I'll play your game. And I will win."

Death shrugged and walked back to the table. As before, both entities sat poised across from the other, eyes locked and chins resting on their hands. Both wore unmistakable grins, although the grin of Fate was that of arrogant confidence. The grin of Death was always there, a perfect poker face.

LET US BEGIN, said Death, the faint pinpricks of light in his sockets now glowing brightly. The galaxies that were the eyes of Fate swirled and twinkled with equal fervor and as both stared into one another, both uncovered truths that neither of them had expected to find. As Death stared into Fate he saw that beyond the mass of distraction and conniving strategy intended to overwhelm him and make him look away was a well-buried secret, an arrangement that had allowed the heretofore events to come to pass. Many would not be able to see past the brightly flaring façade that was the gaze of Fate but Death was like no other. As he probed deeper and his blue light flashed furiously, he could feel resistance coming from his opponent. Pressure like a migraine was building beneath Fate's brow but Death stared hard, drilling into his mind to extract the full extent of his thoughts.

The eyes of Death told truths of a different kind: two simple outcomes that required no screens or theatrics. The first truth was a prophecy of dark repercussions, where agents of the Crimson King would tear down the Beams and ultimately the Dark Tower itself, bringing the destruction of worlds throughout the multiverse. All would collapse as Discordia swallowed light and life, leaving only a never-ending cycle of chaos, destruction and damnation. The sounds of screaming would interlace with demoniac laughter, creating music of dismay that would be herald the inexorable perdition. Only the forces of evil that thrive in such wicked states would be triumphant, even as they consumed and destroyed themselves in the process. And it wouldn't end in one reality but extend to all realities. No god, no mortal, no lifeform of even the most infinitesimal property and value would be spared from the slaughter. The cataclysm would be the downfall of existence until there was only the unthinking, unforgiving void.

The alternative was even more terrible. The mortal brought into the Discworld, should he be restored, would continue as a knight of righteous conviction whose destiny was to bring order back to a dying world. He would face inescapable tragedy along the way, be hunted from every quarter and bring about the doom of many he would meet on his sorrowful path, including those drawn to his side. It would be nothing new, for his lifetime was a portrait of such desolation. All those he had loved were wrenched away and only their bloody memories remained. So it would be for those who he would come to love in future. All for the magnificence of the Tower and the crusade to climb to its summit. The promise of glorious triumph veiling the agony that awaited in perpetuity. The white light would blaze as he called out the names of the fallen, the roses would bloom and sing their beauty across the multiverse, and the Tower would stand, waiting for the inevitable return of those who sought its demolition. And for the sacrifices made by the chosen to ensure its preservation.

Not even Fate himself had inflicted such torment in his schemes. He began to see a shape like an ouroboros form beyond the visions, which gradually morphed into eye. Not blue and cadaverous like Death's but deep red. A bloody ideogram of mockery against the light. His face was stricken in despair as he struggled to resist the visions Death had stored from peering into Roland's soul. But it was futile. Not only had the unblinking wretch succeeded in tricking him after all but he had unearthed something well-hidden from the other gods. Something that he didn't expect to have dealt with so soon. Death may have appreciated the magnitude of the gunslinger's destiny but Fate, having foreknowledge of his coming to the Disc felt like he was being buried alive by these revelations.

CONFESS. The voice echoed in his mind like the shock wave of a supernova. He wanted to resist, cut Death off from the inner-workings of his mind but to do so he would need to look away, or even blink. It was simple for Death to see into the hearts and minds of mortals but gods were a thornier subject. But a meeting of the eyes would allow him the window he would need. Fate cursed himself for allowing the trap to work so easily but judging by the pressure he felt from Death, he guessed that this particular secret wasn't an intentional find. He clenched his fists open and and shut, fidgeting in his chair as if he was trying to hold in a large bowel movement.

CONFESS. NOW.

Fate cried out in anguish and again rocketed out of his chair, running away from the table with his hands covering his eyes.

"Oh, no you don't," rasped Offler, tripping Fate with his tail. Not being uncivilized, the crocodile god helped Fate to his feet and brought him back to the table, albeit with the grace of a bouncer.

"Death won the contetht and now you mutht keep your end of the bargain. What ith it he wants you to confeths?"

"First, I think your teeth need another clean," grumbled Fate, which earned him a warning gnarl. "Just let me take my seat and I will honor the victor."

As he sat down and buried his head in frustration, he felt perturbed by all the eyes watching him, particularly Io's, and understood how Death had felt only minutes ago. He pondered the endless cycles and self-serving conditions that reflected not only in the mortal's story but in this very scenario. Knowing there was no escape, he looked back at Death who's face had, of course, not changed and was waiting with maddening patience.

"You not only want my assistance but also a confession," said Fate. "I don't suppose there's anything else, any other demand?"

NO. JUST THEM.

"As you wish," he said, "you shall have both your confession and god in the machine."


	11. Chapter 11

"Several days ago," began Fate, "I was walking around the base of Cori Celesti so that I might be alone for a time, and view the Aurora Coriolis from below rather than above. You might say I was trying to capture a sense of wonder that cannot be found here atop the world, as we gods are privy to the greatest wonders of all. It was not to be found, for I much prefer to see the Rim and empty space beyond the horizon along with the dancing patterns. But still, it was nice to have that perspective and solitude.

"During the night, I noticed a moon I had never seen before appear from within the lights, one of many colors and a corpse-like mien. I later came to realize it was only reflecting the lights of the phoenix, for its form was true blackness. I found myself walking a great distance, as the moon seemed to grow further and yet closer at the same time. Perhaps it might have been a dream but the rocks and ice beneath my feet were certainly real, and I felt the billowing mountain winds like daggers in my bones. All the while in the thrall of the apparition that led me away, like a moth is to a flame. There was no other option but for me to come to it.

"Eventually, the sphere from the sky fell to me and I was pinned to the ground. Fire and dread spat from its jaws and everything became a mixture of black and the deepest red, as if blood was being poured over my eyes and somehow I could still see out. I was still on the Disc and yet also inside the sphere, which I then knew not to be a moon nor anything from our cosmos. And inside, sitting on a throne of skulls and cloaked in a crimson robe was a gaunt figure whose face was obscured but I felt eyes ogling me, and it was terrible and gluttonous. He was only yards in front of me and yet felt projected from worlds away, which I could not understand at the time. He - no, _it_ told me it came to make a bargain, an offer too tempting for me to turn away. I'll never forget that squeaking voice, for it was that of a lunatic beyond redemption. When I made known my wariness, it revealed that it knew my history."

YOUR HISTORY?

"Please don't interrupt," said Fate testily. "It is of no concern right now except to say that I was not always of the Disc, which you may or may not be aware. The being certainly was and spared no time informing me as such. Though as a matter of fact, I take no small measure of pride in being unique among the gods here but that can be discussed another day."

I'D SOON AS NOT, Death said listlessly.

"Then why — just let me get on with it," said Fate, irritated by Death's diversion. "Returning to my tale, there was something in the tone of this being that I did not trust. When I commanded it to identify itself, it merely laughed and I was then on my knees, paralyzed and helpless. I could only curse and threaten but I had no power there. I was chained without any physical bonds and at this ghoul's mercy.

"It then spoke of a temporary joining of universes, demanding that I facilitate a gateway between the Disc and a world even I have never known. It assured me that by doing so I would not only be performing a grand service but be welcoming the greatest sport I had ever come across, a warrior of especial integrity with the odds stacked against him so high, it would strain my neck to even glance at the top. He even offered to orchestrate a preliminary attack to act as bait and all I would need to do was manipulate events so that a surviving aggressor could lead him to where the gateway was to be opened."

A ONE-WAY GATE THAT YOU CLOSED AFTER.

"Not I," said Fate, "but the one with the glass. An agent in black who was in possession of the power to join and travel between worlds. I'll explain momentarily but I will say I do not know the name of the dark man. When I asked, my captor told me it was of no concern. Instead, it introduced itself as the Crimson King, Lord of Chaos, sower of desperation and true ruler of the Dark Tower. I had no idea what it was talking about but on closer inspection, it appeared to be an old gangly man underneath the red robes. It may have been an illusion but the figure also looked like a huge spider. Perhaps an arachnid wearing human skin, for all I could tell. Whatever its physical properties, it was incontrovertibly tyrannical and psychotic.

"I queried what would happen if I refused and...I shan't repeat it here. But the words spoken and verisimilitude behind them was jarring enough that I found myself asking what kind of attack for the hero it had in mind. When the King told me, then I began to be tempted. It stated that there were to be nineteen pawns with the instruction to slay the target where he slept. It was very emphatic on the number; apparently the agent had suggested it and this tickled the King pink. Figuratively, of course. I did not like this number and suggested fourteen. Not to ease the odds but because it was less obvious than thirteen and a nice round double of seven. Predictably, this suggestion displeased the King but the Lady must have been on my side—"

"Don't flatter yourself," she chimed in. Half the other gods tittered behind their hands.

"Anyway," seethed Fate, "he ultimately agreed when I gave my reasoning. It was to be my game once the hero entered the Discworld, after all, and I would set the rules. After that, it was a matter of my choosing what the hero would endure. The hardest part was to ensure the gate stayed open long enough for the hero to have traversed it. I even left something of a coercive suggestion in his mind to give him a push, not that it was needed. All the while, I did my best to keep this secret safe, though I will have you know, Lady, that I was going to include you in on the plot, once I was good and ready. But of course, you challenged me to our earlier contest and I displaced this one for the opportunity. If not for Death encroaching on my victorious euphoria, I might have devised a suitable stratagem."

AT LEAST IT HASN'T IMPACTED YOUR VOCABULARY, said Death humorlessly. WHAT ABOUT THE GLASS?

"Oh yes," Fate whispered. "One of many but the most powerful, or so I understood. Blacker than midnight and concentrated with evil. It can be used to travel not only between different worlds but different versions of those worlds. Multiverses and realities that are interconnected and yet independent of one another, which is also how it could be used for communication between myself and the other. Somehow, this glass has managed to find our reality and align accordingly, although with great difficulty. This is why they wanted me and why I was drawn to the glass. Perhaps even vice versa. I could synchronize the gateway and with my powers, keep it open long enough but not forever. This world and theirs are not meant to be joined but because of the similarities found in each, they can.

"Here is where it becomes problematic. I can open a new, one-way portal back to the other reality but only once and I do not have the energy to sustain it for long, nor can I guarantee it will be a return to the same reality and the same place, nor even the same time, as when he entered our world. He might return years later, minutes before, a split-second after the fact. I cannot say for sure. Me, of all gods. But wherever and whenever he arrives will be when he is fated to do so. This was all I knew and all I cared to know. What little they told me was to whet my appetite and help me to understand. It seems, in the end, I should have known the full story."

With that, Fate stood up and walked dejectedly away from the table. The gods were silently contemplating his words and the implications of the realities they now knew to exist. A loud mewl snapped them out of this when Bibulous started whinging that Fate had stolen his chalice.*

"I didn't steal it," he said, filling it to the brim with wine. "I am only borrowing it for the moment." He drank long and without a pause for air, handing the chalice back when he had finished.

"Jerk," mumbled Bibulous as Fate trudged over to Death. The reaper stood to meet him.

"Last word," said Fate, meeting Death's eye. "Either the power of the black glass or the one who wielded it made it seem bigger than it was, for before it departed I perceived it was able to fit comfortably in my hands. Perhaps I had held it while the other held me in its thrall, bewitching me into not seeing what was before my eyes like few have ever done. I can comprehend that as a result of this and in sustaining the initial entry I have residual powers left from the glass but it wanes with every moment. All the more reason for a high-stakes game where the ultimate tragedy would be his inability to return. Had he won and in time, well...it would be cruel to renege, and even I could not deny his right for passage."

I FIGURED THAT OUT ALREADY, Death replied casually. JUST AS WELL I WAS YOUR OPPONENT AND MET HIM FIRST. PERHAPS THIS MIGHT BE A MUCH-NEEDED REMINDER IN THE DANGERS OF EXTORTION AND GAMBLING.

"Hate to interrupt," said the Lady, "but if you're quite done, I believe he has a promise to fulfill. Mulling can come later."

###### *This particular chalice was quite oversized, making Bibulous even more precious about every drop he could drink from it.


	12. Chapter 12

It was almost dawn and some of the students had awoken, massing into the Great Hall for early breakfast. Nobody seemed concerned to see the gunslinger sitting among the senior wizards, mostly because they were still shrugging off sleep and were more concerned about getting breakfast whilst it was still fresh. Both the Chair of Indefinite Studies and the Lecturer in Recent Runes took their places with the senior staff and were the first to truly notice Roland's presence, although with only mild surprise.

"You're still here?" asked the Lecturer. "I thought you'd be gone by now."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Roland grimly, "but it seems I must still wait for Death to give me the good news." Both the Lecturer and Chair looked at each other before the Senior Wrangler advised them they had missed the Rite of AshkEnte.

"Ponder Stibbons had to get involved," he said with a smile, "and that boy still gets uncomfortable by the mere mention of it."

"I'm sitting right here, you know," said Stibbons, still discomfited by the night's events. It wasn't fair that the two old sacks had been excused and he had to endure Roland's berating, not to mention Death's cold appearance. He poked at his porridge but could barely bring himself to take a bite.

"Ook," said the Librarian with sympathy. He was having a fruit salad made mostly of bananas and had so far consumed four of them. Either he was really hungry or he too needed something to take his mind off what had come before. Then again, he was known for his voracious appetite. Roland however had accepted only plate with two bacon rashers, a fried egg and two slices of toast, with a mug of tea to wash it down. He had been offered more and though the fruit looked appetizing, decided to keep things basic. The other wizards were fine with this, as it meant more for them.

"You're sure you don't want those rashers cooked a bit more?" asked the Dean with his mouth full.

"They're fine, thanks," Roland said, trying not to look at the sight of egg pieces dropping into the white double-chin beard.

"Each to their own. Then again, I do like to char my meat a bit more than most."

Although the other wizards reacted to this with mild distaste, Roland chose not to answer. It would not be good table manners to educate him that in the High Speech, the word char meant death. _Then again,_ he thought, _it might not even make much of an impact._ Anyone who can summon the Grim Reaper on a whim probably wouldn't care about such semantics, at least not during breakfast.

As the low hum of chatter echoed through the Great Hall and the wizards engorged on their sumptuous morning meal, Roland chewed slowly and allowed his food to grow cold. When he was finished he stared introspectively into his mug, as if trying to glean something from his faint reflection in the remnants of the tea. If he were to reveal his thoughts, it would not be brooding over his need to return as one might presume but a longing for the comradery of his fallen friends. Memories of voices could only satisfy so much and not for the first time Roland wished he could actually witness Cuthbert's jocularity or Alain's stoicism, even Jamie De Curry's taciturn idiosyncrasies, instead of merely reminiscing. He contemplated the probability that being diverted into the Discworld made these yearnings stronger, as it had been years since he'd had an adventure as unorthodox as this. In those days, he had the benefit of their ka-tet to guide him.

It was astoundingly more difficult to think of his friends when he was surrounded by others than when he was alone; in solitude, their ghosts were oddly reassuring but in front of strangers, no matter how kind, the strain and guilt of their loss wrenched at his heart in a way he couldn't simply elucidate. He could only withdraw and let his resting scowl deter any approach of concern. Watching Imogen die tonight not long after he had rescued her, and she him, brought back those feelings of helplessness that had put him in a stranglehold when their deaths had transpired, and now she would be another voice among the rest. His eyes moved from the tea to his hands, which were shaking ever so slightly. He slowly clenched them into fists and hid them under the table, waiting for the sensation to pass. It wasn't often that thinking of his friends got the better of him but sometimes the circumstances of their deaths, especially Alain's, pierced him like a matador taunting a bull. He had come to terms with their loss and there was nothing he could do but abide the remorse, and Roland had a never-ending supply of it. He learned a long time ago that wishing he could have prevented their demise was as futile as trying to breathe in a sandstorm. He willed himself to close his mind off from any further remembrance before the others he had lost began their laments, as they doubtlessly would. Instead he took a deep breath and finished his beverage, which now tasted like rusted metal. After the reminders of sadness, he was looking forward to feeling empty again.

The doors to the Great Hall unexpectedly flew open and the Wizards were blinded by the glow that followed. They were immediately struck dumb when they realized who was approaching; no mere intruder but the god Fate himself. Many of the wizards moved their mouths like fish gasping for air. Fate strolled to the center of the room with a regal aura and anyone who observed this would naturally expect a grand symphony to surround him: a choir rising with a haunting crescendo, strings and brass escalating with every step, drums echoing the impact of his presence and advancement. Instead, all that was heard was the sounds of sharp respiration and silverware clinking as it was dropped in unison, followed by the Bursar noisily breaking wind like a tuneless trumpet.

"Oh, um...I beg your pardon," he said with a nervous titter. Ridcully held his face in his hands.

"That's not the only thing you'll be begging for," came his agitated voice, slightly muffled by his palms.

Fate ignored this and approached the gunslinger directly, who had already began walking towards him with brazen expectation. With a wave of his hand Fate froze all those in the Hall in place, barring Roland and those who participated in the Rite of AshkEnte. He felt it appropriate that only those directly involved should view this confrontation and those who didn't would only have a vague recollection of an energetic force that vanished as quickly as it came (and probably blame it on some experiment from the HEM). Whatever doubts they had now were dispelled completely, for it was nearly unheard of for a god to come before a mortal in this fashion, presuming all was balanced in the world. The two gazed into one another and Fate suddenly felt downhearted. He saw what Death had seen and wished he had known sooner, rather than taking for granted that this was just another stupid hero whose suffering would be the source of great amusement. With what he knew now, it could have been legendary, even in the Dungeon Dimensions.

"I had such plans for you," said Fate morosely, "the stubborn and dire hero who is just as lethal as his enemies. Perhaps a trip to Überwald or Klatch to face down the terrors they offer but now that I know who you are, such toy thoughts seem insignificant. You deserve a far more grandiose journey through the Disc, with far more brutal consequences. And it seems you already have to a degree, even without my guiding hand."

"A challenge that would have been met," Roland replied brusquely, "even if it meant climbing the top of your spire and announcing myself to every god this world has to offer. Yet it still would mean less to me than objective I truly seek."

"Please do not tempt me," said Fate, "for I would not deign to envision you coming to an undignified and tragic end after all you have brooked." As he said this, a small smile formed upon his lips that just as swiftly vanished.

"Besides," he continued, "it doesn't matter now. Your journey must continue the way you began it, not the way I or others may desire."

"Thankee-sai for your integrity," Roland said, trying to keep the edge from his tone. "It is my vow to ensure the Tower is protected so that this world may be safeguarded from the tragedies that have befallen mine."

"Perhaps you might fulfill this vow," replied Fate, "though it is not for me to say. Return then and maintain your covenant."

Fate lifted his arms and began to glow with non-light, extending from his hands and enveloping the rest of the god. Within seconds he vanished, being replaced by a waving cloud of darkness not unlike the one Roland first entered. This one also had a faint shimmering, as if a promise of light awaited the gunslinger on the other side. He needed only to step through and see for himself. Roland stood before it purposefully, and turned to thank the wizards for their hospitality.

"Long says and pleasant nights, gentleman," he said, tipping his hat. "And well met."

"And the same to you," said Ridcully, with a touch of awe. "I hope this takes you where you need to be and that you find what you are looking for."

"Well met, indeed," agreed the Dean. "I certainly cannot think of another way to describe it. Quantum somehow doesn't seem appropriate."

"How about a word from my language?" Roland offered. "Ka." And with that, he smiled and gave a salute. This one was kindly and warm, rarely seen on the gunslinger's face. The wizards smiled back, taking comfort in the strange word that felt so right.* Ridcully tipped his own hat and even gave Roland a small bow as he did so. This too was rare, as the old wizard meant it with sincerity and not the false flattery he reserved for others. The other senior wizards were inspired to do the same, except for the Librarian, who pursed his lips in approval as if offering a kiss. Roland gave a small laugh and turned again to the portal, ready to continue the pursuit of the man who eluded him, and the prize that awaited him. Staring straight ahead, he strode into his doorway home.

###### *Ponder Stibbons couldn't help but give this word to Hex for translation. A multitude of results came back, including one for a talking snake.


	13. Chapter 13

Roland emerged into the woods from whence he came, seeing the path before him that would lead to the man in black. His head all of a sudden felt woozy and he turned to brace himself on a nearby tree, facing the ground and closing his eyes. As he slowly blinked the momentary dizziness away, he looked up and found himself staring into an eye that had been carved into the trunk. Below this carving were the words: WATCH YOUR BACK. There was a faint red color in the carving, as it had been painted but had since weathered away. He stepped back from the trunk as his mind suddenly went blank. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands and looked back at the message that had been clearly left for him. Roland snorted, doubting this was anything more than his quarry getting bored and amusing himself. Maybe he used the chips for kindling. He didn't know how long he had been staring at the tree but he felt stagnant, like an enchantment had been left in the eye to prevent his progress. He started jogging to get his muscles working again until he felt better enough to resume his walking pace.

He moved onwards through the woods, which were beginning to thin. At one point he noticed an abandoned camp site that smelled of death and wondered what exactly the man in black had been up to. Not wanting to spend the night there, he moved on until he found an abandoned cabin. Although it was past full dark, there was something about building that didn't feel right to Roland, so he kept moving for another few miles until his feet could no longer stand. He slept that night fitfully, dreaming of pealing bells and voices from the dark; of strange cities and even stranger inhabitants. When he awoke, all he knew from his dreams were that they were troubling but not specific. He wasted no time in getting back on the trail. It was about time for him to leave these woods.

The heat was rising and the faint aroma of the parched grasslands ahead was detected. His focus was now on the man in black and the quest he had begun. Now that the woods were clearing and more level paths were ahead, the other would have gained significant ground but eventually the distance would be closed. By the time he reached the prairies and the desert road, all memories from his time in Discworld had faded from his subconscious completely and soon there was nothing to dream of except for the long journey through the ever-changing landscape that led to this point, the perpetual heat and promise of long days and unpleasant nights to come.

He could almost see the man in black over the horizon, a speck on the vast and waving line where land met sky, reflecting the unforgiving sun. Perhaps it was a hallucination but it still pleased him. He wondered if and when he would see another civilized person or community, as they were becoming increasingly rare. Doubtless when he arrived, Walter would have perverted their hearts and minds. He reminded himself to be prepared and not take his enemy for granted. And just as the searing day was followed by the freezing night, so too the sorcerer was pursued by the last gunslinger.


End file.
